UN.V  TY  OF 

Calf    kNIA 
SAN  DIEGO 


^ 


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MARIE  GRUBBE 


MARIE  GRUBBE 

A  LADY  OF  THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY 

BY 

JENS  PETER  JACOBSEN 


TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  DANISH 
BY  HANNA  ASTRUP  LARSEN 


NEW  YORK 

BONI  &  LIVERIGHT 

1918 


Copyright,  1917,  by  The  American  Scandinavian  Foundation 


INTRODUCTION 

'  "T  ANGUAGE  is  like  an  instrument  that  requires  to  be 
I  J  tuned  occasionally.  A  ^^\n  times  in  the  course  of  a 
century  the  literary  language  of  a  country  needs  to  be  tuned 
afresh;  for  as  no  generation  can  be  satisfied  to  think  the 
thoughts  of  the  preceding  one,  so  no  group  of  men  in  the 
world  of  letters  can  use  the  language  of  the  school  that  went 
before  them."  With  these  words  Georg  Brandes  begins  his 
discussion'  of  the  influence  of  J.  P.  Jacobsen.  As  Brandes 
himself  was  the  critic  who  found  new  paths,  Jacobsen  was 
the  creative  artist  who  moulded  his  native  language  into  a 
medium  fit  for  modern  ideas.  At  the  time  when  Denmark 
and  Norway  had  come  to  a  parting  of  ways  intellectually, 
and  the  great  Norwegians  were  forming  their  own  rugged 
style,  Jacobsen  gave  the  Danes  a  language  suited  to  their 
needs,  subtle,  pliant,  and  finely  modulated.  He  found  new 
methods  of  approach  to  truth  and  even  a  new  manner  of 
seeing  nature  and  humanity.  In  an  age  that  had  wearied  of 
generalities,  he  emphasized  the  unique  and  the  character- 
istic. To  a  generation  that  had  ceased  to  accept  anything 
because  it  was  accepted  before,  he  brought  the  new  power 
of  scientific  observation  in  the  domain  of  the  mind  and 
spirit.  In  order  to  understand  him  it  is  necessary  to  follow 
the  two  currents,  the  one  poetic,  the  other  scientific,  that 
ran  through  his  life. 

Jens  Peter  Jacobsen  was  born  in  Jutland,  in  the  little 
town  of  Thisted,  on  April  7,  1847,  and  was  the  son  of  a 
merchant  in  moderate  circumstances.  From  his  mother 
he  inherited  a  desire  to  write  poetry,  which  asserted  itself 
while  he  was  yet  a  boy.  His  other  chief  interest  was  botany, 

*  Det  moderne  Gennemhrudi  Mand, 


vi  INTRODUCTION 

then  a  new  feature  of  the  school  curriculum.  He  had  a  fer- 
vent love  of  all  plant-life  and  enjoyed  keenly  the  fairy-tales 
of  Hans  Christian  Andersen,  in  vv^hich  flov^^ers  are  endowed 
with  personality.  At  twenty,  Jacobsen  wrote  in  his  diary 
that  he  did  not  know  whether  to  choose  science  or  poetry 
for  his  life-work,  since  he  felt  equally  drawn  to  both.  He 
added:  "  If  I  could  bring  into  the  realm  of  poetry  the  eter- 
nal laws  of  nature,  its  glories,  its  riddles,  its  miracles,  then 
I  feel  that  my  work  would  be  more  than  ordinary." 

He  was  one  of  the  first  in  Scandinavia  to  realize  the  im- 
portance of  Darwin,  and  translated  The  Origin  of  Species 
and  The  Descent  of  Man  ^  besides  writing  magazine  articles 
elucidating  the  principles  of  evolution.  Meanwhile  he  car- 
ried on  his  botanical  research  faithfully  and,  in  1872,  won 
a  gold  medal  in  the  University  at  Copenhagen  for  a  thesis 
on  the  Danish  des?nidiaciae^  a  microscopic  plant  growing  in 
the  marshes.  In  the  same  year,  he  made  his  literary  debut 
with  a  short  story,  Mogens,  which  compelled  attention  by 
the  daring  originality  of  its  style.  From  that  time  on,  he 
seems  to  have  had  no  doubt  that  his  life-work  was  litera- 
ture, though  he  became  primarily  a  master  of  prose  and  not, 
as  he  had  dreamed  in  his  boyhood,  a  writer  of  verse. 

In  the  spring  of  1873,  ^^  wrote  from  Copenhagen  to 
Edvard  Brandes:'  "Just  think, I  get  up  every  morning  at 
eleven  and  go  to  the  Royal  Library,  where  I  read  old  docu- 
ments and  letters  and  lies  and  descriptions  of  murder,  adul- 
tery, corn  rates,  whoremongery,  market  prices,  gardening, 
the  siege  of  Copenhagen,  divorce  proceedings,  christenings, 
estate  registers,  genealogies,  and  funeral  sermons.  All  this 
is  to  become  a  wonderful  novel  to  be  called  'Mistress 
Marie  Grubbe,  Interiors  from  the  Seventeenth  Century.' 

^  Bre-ve  fra  y .  P .  jf acobsen,  Med  Forord  udgivne  af  Edvard  Brandes, 


INTRODUCTION  vii 

You  remember,  she  is  the  one  who  is  mentioned  in  Hol- 
berg's  Epistles  and  in  The  Goose  Girl  by  Andersen,  and  who 
was  first  married  to  U.  F.  Gyldenlove  and  afterwards  to 
a  ferryman." 

When  the  first  two  chapters  were  finished,  an  advance 
honorarium  from  his  publisher  enabled  him  to  follow  his 
longing  and  make  a  trip  to  the  south  of  Europe,  but  his 
stay  there  was  cut  short  by  an  attack  of  the  insidious  lung 
disease  that  was,  eventually,  to  end  his  life.  At  Florence, 
he  had  a  hemorrhage  and  was  obliged  to  return  home  to 
Thisted,  where  the  family  physican  declared  his  illness  to 
be  mortal.  He  recovered  partially  and  lived  to  write  his 
great  works,  but  for  eleven  years  his  life  was  a  constant 
struggle  with  physical  disability. 

Marie  Grubbe  cost  him  nearly  four  years  of  labor,  during 
which  time  he  published  nothing  except  a  short  story,  Et 
Skud  i  Taagen  ("A  Shot  in  the  Mist"),  and  a  few  poems. 
The  first  two  chapters  of  his  novel  appeared  under  the 
title  Marie  Grubbes  Barndom  ("  The  Childhood  of  Marie 
Grubbe"),  and  were  printed  in  October,  1873, in  a  monthly 
magazine.  Det  nittende  Aarhundrede^  edited  by  Edvard  and 
Georg  Brandes.  The  completed  book  was  published  in  De- 
cember, 1876,  and  had  sufficient  popular  success  to  war- 
rant a  second  edition  in  February.  Conservative  critics, 
however,  needed  time  to  adjust  themselves  to  so  startling 
a  novelty,  and  one  reviewer  drew  from  Georg  Brandes  the 
retort  that  certain  people  ought  to  wear  blue  goggles  when 
looking  at  a  style  so  full  of  color. 

Long  before  he  had  finished  Marie  Grubbe^  Jacobsen  felt 
a  new  novel  taking  shape  in  his  mind.  It  was  to  be  the  story 
of  a  modern  youth  and  be  called  Niels  Zj^«^.  It  was  written, 
bit  by  bit,  in  Thisted  and  abroad,  and  did  not  appear  until 


vui  INTRODUCTION 

December,  1880,  four  years  after  Marie  Grubbe.  In  the 
latter,  he  had  written  of  Renaissance  types,  sensual,  full- 
blooded,  and  impulsive  J  only  in  Sti  Hogh,  who  was  always 
cutting  up  the  timber  of  life  into  thought-shavings,  had  he 
foreshadowed  that  modern  reflectiveness  which  Heiden- 
stam  calls  the  curse  of  the  nineteenth  century.  Niels  Lyhne 
is  the  embodiment  of  this  spirit,  and  is  generally  accepted 
as  Jacobsen's  self-portrait,  although  the  events  of  the  story 
are  not  those  of  the  author's  life.  F.  Hansen  calls  it '  "a 
casting  up  of  accounts  with  life  by  a  man  whom  death  had 
marked.  Thence  its  Pindaric  elevation  of  thought  and  ex- 
pression. It  is  instinct  with  a  spirit  like  a  swan  that  rises 
and  rises,  on  broad,  slow  wings,  till  it  is  lost  to  sight."  It 
expresses  Jacobsen's  struggle,  not  only  against  the  bodily 
weakness  that  laid  its  paralyzing  hand  on  his  faculties,  but 
also  against  the  sluggish,  dreamy  blood  he  had  inherited, 
which  made  all  creative  work  an  agonizing  effort. 

Niels  Lyhne  is  an  outsider  from  life.  He  seems  never  to 
fill  any  particular  place  in  his  world.  He  has  a  poetic  gift 
and  high  artistic  ideals,  but  never  writes.  Two  women 
leave  him  for  other  men  less  fine  and  lovable.  Finally,  he 
returns  to  his  old  home  and  family  traditions,  to  manage 
his  father's  estate,  and  to  marry  a  sweet  young  girl,  the 
daughter  of  an  old  neighbor.  She  and  her  child  are  taken 
away  from  him  by  death,  and  in  her  last  illness  she  for- 
sakes the  atheism  he  has  taught  her  and  turns  to  the  old 
religion,  leaving  Niels  with  a  baffled  sense  that  her  spirit 
has  left  him  even  before  the  parting  in  death.  At  last  Niels 
himself  dies  "the  difficult  death" — the  closing  words  of 
the  book. 

This  is  perhaps  the  place  to  say  a  few  words  about  the 

'  Illustreret  Dansk  Litteraturhistorie, 


INTRODUCTION  ix 

atheism  that  is  a  dreary  side  of  Jacobsen's  rich  and  brilliant 
personality.  Early  in  life,  he  became  convinced  that  human 
beings  must  rid  themselves  of  the  idea  that  any  supernatural 
powder  would  interfere  between  themselves  and  their  deeds. 
He  saw  a  supreme  moral  value  in  the  doctrine  of  evolution 
with  its  principle  of  a  universe  governed  by  laws  of  cause 
and  effect.  In  Niels  Lyhne  he  emphasized  again  and  again  the 
bitter  theory  that  no  one  ever  added  an  inch  to  his  height 
by  dreams,  or  changed  the  consequences  of  good  and  evil  by 
wishes  and  aspirations.  Niels  tries  to  instill  into  himself  and 
his  wife  the  courage  to  face  life  as  it  is,  without  taking  refuge 
from  realities  in  a  world  of  dreams.  Further  than  this,  Ja- 
cobsen attacked  no  sincere  faith.  It  would  be  interesting  to 
search  out  how  far,  since  his  day,  his  principle  of  the  im- 
mutability of  law  has  penetrated  religious  thought,  but  that 
would  be  beyond  the  scope  of  this  sketch. 

For  eight  years,  while  writing  his  two  novels,  Jacobsen 
had  lived  in  his  little  native  town  in  Jutland  with  occasional 
trips  to  the  south.  After  the  completion  o^  Niels  Lyhne^\\e  re- 
sumed his  place  in  the  literary  circles  of  Copenhagen,  which 
he  had  shunned — so  he  humbly  confessed — because  he  was 
ashamed  of  never  getting  anything  finished.  His  old  diffi- 
dence seemed  to  have  left  him;  to  the  sweetness  and  quiet 
whimsicality  that  had  always  endeared  him  to  his  friends  he 
added  a  new  poise  and  assurance.  He  was  deeply  gratified 
by  the  reception  given  Niels  Lyhnehy  people  whose  opinion 
he  valued,  and  when  he  was  told  that  Ibsen  was  reading  it 
aloud  to  his  evening  circle,  and  had  pronounced  it  the  best 
book  of  its  kind  in  modern  literature,  he  characteristically 
remarked  that  this  was  pleasant  to  hear,  even  though  John 
Poulson  (Ibsen's  friend  and  biographer^  no  doubt  exagger- 
ated a  little. 


X  INTRODUCTION 

This  period  of  Jacobsen's  life  was  in  many  ways  a  happy 
one,  in  spite  of  his  declining  health.  He  had  his  old  lodgings 
and  lived  there  with  the  same  puritanic  simplicity  as  in  his 
student  days,  and  indeed  his  books  never  brought  him  enough 
money  to  live  otherwise, but  herevelledinaluxuriouscouch, 
the  gift  of  anonymous  women  admirers,  and  in  the  flowers 
with  which  his  friends  kept  his  rooms  filled.  He  wrote  at 
this  time  a  few  short  stories,  among  them  Pesten  i  Bergamo 
("  The  Plague  at  Bergamo  ")  and  Fru  Fbnss.  The  latter  tells 
of  a  woman  in  middle  life  who  had  the  courage  to  grasp  the 
happiness  that  youth  had  denied  her.  She  dies,  and  her  fare- 
well letter  to  her  children  gives  Jacobsen  the  opportunity 
to  express  the  longing  to  be  remembered  which  he  could 
never  have  brought  himself  to  utter  in  his  own  person. 
''Those  who  are  about  to  die  are  always  poor.  I  am  poor; 
for  all  this  beautiful  world,  which  has  been  my  rich,  blessed 
home  for  so  many  years,  is  to  be  taken  from  me.  My  chair 
will  be  empty;  the  door  will  be  closed  after  me,  and  I  shall 
never  set  my  foot  there  again.  Therefore  I  look  on  every- 
thing with  a  prayer  in  my  eyes  that  it  will  love  me;  there- 
fore I  come  to  you  and  beg  you  to  love  me  with  all  the  love 
you  once  gave  me.  Remember  that  to  be  loved  is  all  the  part 
I  shall  have  in  the  world  of  men.  Only  to  be  remembered, 
nothing  more." 

With  the  last  remnant  of  his  strength,  Jacobsen  recast 
his  poems,  which  were  published  after  his  death.  Finally, 
when  his  illness  could  no  longer  be  fought  off,  he  went 
home  to  Thisted  to  be  cared  for  by  his  mother  and  brother. 
There  he  died,  on  April  30,  1 885,  as  quietly  and  bravely  as 
he  had  lived. 

The  importance  of  the  two  short  volumes  that  contain 


INTRODUCTION  xi 

Jacobsen's  complete  works  has  been  more  fully  realized  as 
they  have  been  seen  in  the  perspective  of  time.  His  poems, 
though  few  in  number,  are  exquisite.  With  Niels  Lyhne^  he 
introduced  the  psychological  novel  in  Denmark.  While  at 
work  on  it,  he  wrote  a  friend  that  after  all  the  only  interest- 
ing thing  was  "  the  struggle  of  one  or  more  human  beings 
for  existence,that  is  their  struggle  against  the  existingorder 
of  things  for  their  right  to  exist  in  their  own  way."  Vilhelm 
Andersen  points'  to  these  casual  words  as  marking  the 
cleavage  between  the  old  and  the  new,  saying:  "Before 
Nieh  Lyhne^  the  poetic  was  the  general; after  this  book,  the 
poetic  became  the  personal.  The  literature  whose  foremost 
representative  is  Adam  Oehlenschlager  had  for  its  aim  the 
exaltation  of  the  things  common  to  humanity;  the  art  in 
which  J.  P.  Jacobsen  became  the  first  master  has  only  one 
purpose, the  presentation  andelucidationof  the  individual." 
Jacobsen  has  himself  told  us  his  ideal  of  style  in  a  para- 
graph of  Niels  Lyhne^  where  he  lets  Fru  Boye  attack  the 
generalities  of  Oehlenschlager's  description  in  his  poem 
The  Mermaid  visits  King  Helge.  "  I  want  a  luxuriant,  glow- 
ing picture,"  she  exclaims.  "I  want  to  be  initiated  into  the 
mysterious  beauty  of  such  a  mermaid  body,  and  I  ask  of 
you,  what  can  I  make  of  lovely  limbs  with  a  piece  of  gauze 
spread  over  them?  —  Good  God!  —  No,  she  should  have 
been  naked  as  a  wave  and  with  the  wild  lure  of  the  sea  about 
her.  Her  skin  should  have  had  something  of  the  phosphores- 
cence of  the  summer  ocean  and  her  hair  something  of  the 
black,  tangled  horror  of  the  seaweed.  Am  I  not  right?  Yes, 
and  a  thousand  tints  of  the  water  should  come  and  go  in  the 
changeful  glitter  of  her  eyes.  Her  pale  breast  must  be  cool 
with  a  voluptuous  coolness,  and  her  limbs  have  the  flowing 

'  LitteraturbilUder^  II, 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

lines  of  the  waves.  The  power  of  the  maelstrom  must  be  in 
her  kiss,  and  the  yielding  softness  of  the  foam  in  the  em- 
brace of  her  arms."  In  the  same  passage,  Jacobsen  praises 
the  vitality  of  Shakespeare's  style  as  a  contrast  to  that  of 
the  Danish  romanticists. 

His  search  for  unique  and  characteristic  expressions  had 
free  play  in  Marie  Grubbe^  where  he  could  draw  on  the 
store  of  quaint  archaic  and  foreign  words  he  unearthed  in 
his  preliminary  studies.  To  avoid  the  harsh  staccato  of  the 
North,  he  made  full  use  of  the  redundant  words  and  unac- 
cented syllables  that  were  more  common  in  the  old  Danish 
than  in  the  modern,  and  thereby  he  gained  the  effect  of  prose 
rhythm.  While  discarding  outworn  phrases,  he  often  coins 
new  words,  as  for  instance  when  he  is  not  satisfied  to  let 
the  sunlight  play  on  the  wings  of  the  doves  circling  around 
Frederiksborg  castle,  or  even  to  make  the  sunlight  golden, 
but  must  needs  fashion  the  word  "  sungold  "  {solguld)^ 
which  in  two  syllables  is  the  concentrated  essence  of  what 
he  wishes  to  say.  Sometimes  he  gives  a  sharper  edge  to  a 
common  expression  merely  by  changing  the  usual  order  of 
two  coupled  words,  as  when  he  speaks  of  Ulrik  Christian 
as  slim  and  tall,  instead  of  tall  and  slim — a  minute  touch 
that  really  adds  vividness  to  the  picture. 

The  habit  of  looking  for  characteristic  features,  which 
he  had  acquired  in  his  botanical  studies,  became  an  apt  tool 
of  his  creative  faculty.  Sometimes  his  descriptions  seem 
overloaded  with  details,  as  when  he  uses  two  pages  to  tell 
about  the  play  of  the  firelight  in  the  little  parlor  at  Aggers- 
hus,  where  Marie  Grubbe  sits  singing  to  the  tones  of  her 
lute.  Yet  the  images  never  blur  nor  overlap  one  another. 
Every  word  deepens  the  central  idea:  the  sport  of  the  storm 
with  the  fire  and  the  consequent  struggle  between  light  and 


INTRODUCTION  xiii 

darkness  in  the  room.  Not  only  that,  but  the  entire  de- 
scription ministers  subtly  to  the  allurement  of  the  woman 
at  the  hearth.  Almost  any  writer  except  J.  P.  Jacobsen 
would  have  told  us  how  the  light  played  on  Marie  Grubbe's 
hair  and  face,  but  he  prefers  to  let  us  feel  her  personality 
through  her  environment.  This  is  true  also  of  his  outdoor 
pictures,  where  he  uses  his  flower-lore  to  good  advantage, 
as  in  the  first  chapter  of  Marie  Grubbe^  where  we  find  the 
lonely,  wayward  child  playing  in  the  old  luxuriant,  neg- 
lected garden  full  ofa  tangle  of  quaint  old-fashioned  flowers. 
But  when  she  returns  to  the  home  of  her  childhood,  we  hear 
no  more  of  the  famous  Tjele  garden  except  as  a  place  to 
raise  vegetables  in;  her  later  history  is  sketched  on  a  back- 
ground of  heathery  hill,  permeated  with  a  strong  smell  of 
sun-scorched  earth,  which  somehow  suggests  the  harsh, 
physical  realities  of  life  in  the  class  she  has  entered. 

Another  means  in  his  favorite  method  of  indirect  ap- 
proach to  a  personality  is  through  woman's  dress.  Marie 
Grubbe's  attire  —  from  the  lavender  homespun  and  billow- 
ing linen  ruffles  of  the  young  maiden  to  the  more  sophis- 
ticated daintiness  of  Ulrik  Frederik's  bride  in  madder  red 
robe  and  clocked  stockings,  the  slovenly  garb  of  Palle  Dy  re's 
wife,  and  finally  the  neat  simple  gown  marred  by  a  tawdry 
brocaded  cap  which  she  dons  when  she  falls  in  love  with 
Soren — is  a  complete  index  to  her  moral  fall  and  rise.  Sofie 
Urne's  shabby  velvet,  her  trailing  plumes  and  red-nosed 
shoes, are  equally  characteristic  of  hertarnished  attractions, 
and  when  her  lover  bends  rapturously  over  the  slim,  white 
hand  which  is  "not  quite  clean"  we  know  exactly  the  na- 
ture of  the  charm  she  exercises, though  Jacobsen  never  com- 
ments on  her  character,  as  an  author  of  the  older  school 
would  have  done.  Nor  does  he  ask  our  sympathy  for  Marie 


xiv  INTRODUCTION 

Grubbe,  but  he  lets  us  feel  all  the  promise  and  the  tragedy 
of  her  life  in  the  description  of  her  eyes  as  a  young  girl — 
a  paragraph  of  marvellous  poignant  beauty. 

Jacobsen  once  jestingly  compared  himself  to  the  sloth 
{det  beromte  Dovendyr  Æ-ai)  which  needed  two  years  to  climb 
to  the  top  of  a  tree.  It  was  necessary  for  him  to  withdraw 
absolutely  from  the  world  and  to  retire,  as  it  were,  within 
the  character  he  wished  to  portray  before  he  could  set  pen 
to  paper.  It  cannot  be  denied  that  the  laboriousness  of  the 
process  is  sometimes  perceptible  in  his  finished  work.  His 
style  became  too  gorgeous  in  color,  too  heavy  with  fra- 
grance. Yet  there  were  signs  that  Jacobsen's  genius  was 
freeing  itself  from  the  faults  of  over-richness.  The  very  last 
prose  that  came  from  his  hand,  Fru  Fonss^  has  a  clarified 
simplicity  that  has  induced  critics  to  place  it  at  the  very 
head  of  his  production.  Indeed,  it  is  difficult  to  say  to  what 
heights  of  artistic  accomplishment  he  might  have  risen 
had  his  life  been  spared  beyond  the  brief  span  of  thirty-eight 
years.  As  it  is,  the  books  he  left  us  are  still,  of  their  kind, 
unsurpassed  in  the  North. 

The  translation  o^  Marie  Grubbe  (a  book  which  Brandes 
has  called  one  of  the  greatest  tours  de  force  in  Danish  lit- 
erature) was  a  task  to  be  approached  with  diffidence.  The 
author  does  not  reconstruct  exactly,  in  his  dialogue,  the 
language  of  the  period;  nor  have  I  attempted  it.  Even  had 
I  been  able  to  do  so,  the  racy  English  of  the  Restoration 
would  have  been  an  alien  medium  for  the  flourishes  and 
pomposities  of  Jacobsen's  Danish.  On  the  other  hand,  it 
would  clearly  have  been  unfair  to  the  author  to  turn  his 
work  into  ordinary  modern  English  and  so  destroy  that 
stiff,  rich  fabric  of  curious,  archaic  words  and  phrases  which 
he  had  been  at  such  pains  to  weave.  There  seemed  only  one 


INTRODUCTION  xv 

course  open :  to  follow  the  original,  imitating  as  far  as  pos- 
sible its  color  and  texture,  even  though  the  resultant  lan- 
guage may  not  be  of  any  particular  time  or  place.  The  trans- 
lation has  been  a  task,  but  also  a  pleasure.  To  live  inti- 
mately for  months  with  Jacobsen's  style  is  to  find  beauty 
within  beauty  and  truth  within  truth  like  "rose  upon  rose 
in  flowering  splendor." 

H.  A.  L. 

Neiv  York,  July  i,  1917. 


MARIE  GRUBBE 

BY 
JENS  PETER  JACOBSEN 


MARIE  GRUBBE 

CHAPTER  I 

THE  air  beneath  the  linden  crowns  had  flowed  in  across 
brown  heath  and  parched  meadow.  It  brought  the  heat 
of  the  sun  and  was  laden  with  dust  from  the  road,  but  in 
the  cool,  thick  foliage  it  had  been  cleansed  and  freshened, 
while  the  yellow  linden  flowers  had  given  it  moisture  and 
fragrance.  In  the  blissful  haven  of  the  green  vault  it  lay 

:s 


To  avoid  eonfusion,  care  should  be  taken  to  dis- 
tinguish between  two  characters  in  the  book 
bearing  similar  names.    Ulrik  Frederik  Gylden-  "J 

love  and  Ulrik  Christian  Gyldenlove.  , 


or    laVCIlUCl    llUlllC^UUll,  ailU    nt^ni    li.s    oiiuxi,  oiaon^^u  oi<^>.vvS 

billowed  ruflles  of  fine  holland.  A  bow  of  red  ribbon  was  on 
her  breast,  and  her  shoes  had  red  rosettes. 

Her  hands  behind  her  back,  her  head  bent  forward,  she 
went  slowly  up  the  path,  picking  her  steps  daintily.  She 
did  not  walk  in  a  straight  line,  but  meandered,  sometimes 
almost  running  into  a  tree  at  her  left,  then  again  seeming 
on  the  point  of  strolling  out  among  the  bushes  to  her  right. 
Now  and  then,  she  would  stop,  shake  the  hair  from  her 
cheeks,  and  look  up  to  the  light.  The  softened  glow  gave 
her  child-white  face  a  faint  golden  sheen  and  made  the  blue 


MARIE  GRUBBE 

CHAPTER  I 

THE  air  beneath  the  linden  crowns  had  flowed  in  across 
brown  heath  and  parched  meadow.  It  brought  the  heat 
of  the  sun  and  was  laden  with  dust  from  the  road,  but  in 
the  cool,  thick  foliage  it  had  been  cleansed  and  freshened, 
while  the  yellow  linden  flowers  had  given  it  moisture  and 
fragrance.  In  the  blissful  haven  of  the  green  vault  it  lay 
quivering  in  light  waves,  caressed  by  the  softly  stirring  leaves 
and  the  flutter  of  white-gold  butterfly  wings. 

The  human  lips  that  breathed  this  air  were  full  and  fresh; 
the  bosom  it  swelled  was  young  and  slight.  The  bosom  was 
slight,  and  the  foot  was  slight,  the  waist  small,  the  shape 
slim,  and  there  was  a  certain  lean  strength  about  the  whole 
figure.  Nothing  was  luxuriant  except  the  partly  loosened 
hair  of  dull  gold,  from  which  the  little  dark  blue  cap  had 
slipped  until  it  hung  on  her  back  like  a  tiny  cowl.  Other- 
wise there  was  no  suggestion  of  the  convent  in  her  dress. 
A  wide,  square-cut  collar  was  turned  down  over  a  frock 
of  lavender  homespun,  and  from  its  short,  slashed  sleeves 
billowed  ruflles  of  fine  holland.  A  bow  of  red  ribbon  was  on 
her  breast,  and  her  shoes  had  red  rosettes. 

Her  hands  behind  her  back,  her  head  bent  forward,  she 
went  slowly  up  the  path,  picking  her  steps  daintily.  She 
did  not  walk  in  a  straight  line,  but  meandered,  sometimes 
almost  running  into  a  tree  at  her  left,  then  again  seeming 
on  the  point  of  strolling  out  among  the  bushes  to  her  right. 
Now  and  then,  she  would  stop,  shake  the  hair  from  her 
cheeks,  and  look  up  to  the  light.  The  softened  glow  gave 
her  child-white  face  a  faint  golden  sheen  and  made  the  blue 


4  MARIE  GRUBBE 

shadows  under  the  eyes  less  marked.  The  scarlet  of  her  lips 
deepened  to  red-brown,  and  the  great  blue  eyes  seemed  al- 
most black.  She  was  lovely — lovely! — a  straight  forehead, 
faintly  arched  nose,  short,  clean-cut  upper  lip,  a  strong, 
round  chin  and  finely  curved  cheeks,  tiny  ears,  and  deli- 
cately pencilled  eyebrows.  .  .  . 

She  smiled  as  she  walked,  lightly  and  carelessly,  thought 
of  nothing,  and  smiled  in  harmony  with  everything  around 
her.  At  the  end  of  the  path,  she  stopped  and  began  to  rock 
on  her  heel,  first  to  the  right,  then  to  the  left,  still  with  her 
hands  behind  her  back,  head  held  straight,  and  eyes  turned 
upward,  as  she  hummed  fitfully  in  time  with  her  swaying. 

Two  flagstones  led  down  into  the  garden,  which  lay  glar- 
ing under  the  cloudless,  whitish-blue  sky.  The  only  bit  of 
shade  hugged  the  feet  of  the  clipped  box-hedge.  The  heat 
stung  the  eyes,  and  even  the  hedge  seemed  to  flash  light 
from  the  burnished  leaves.  The  amber-bush  trailed  its 
white  garlands  in  and  out  among  thirsty  balsamines,  night- 
shade, gillyflowers,  and  pinks,  which  stood  huddling  like 
sheep  in  the  open.  The  peas  and  beans  flanking  the  lav- 
ender border  were  ready  to  fall  from  their  trellis  with  heat. 
The  marigolds  had  given  up  the  struggle  and  stared  the  sun 
straight  in  the  face,  but  the  poppies  had  shed  their  large  red 
petals  and  stood  with  bared  stalks. 

The  child  in  the  linden  lane  jumped  down  the  steps, 
ran  through  the  sun-heated  garden,  with  head  lowered  as 
one  crosses  a  court  in  the  rain,  made  for  a  triangle  of  dark 
yew-trees,  slipped  behind  them,  and  entered  a  large  arbor, 
a  relic  from  the  days  of  the  Belows.  A  wide  circle  of  elms 
had  been  woven  together  at  the  top  as  far  as  the  branches 
would  reach,  and  a  framework  of  withes  closed  the  round 
opening  in  the  centre.  Climbing  roses  and  Italian  honey- 


MARIE  GRUBBE  5 

suckle,  growing  wild  in  the  foliage,  made  a  dense  wall,  but 
on  one  side  they  had  failed, and  the  hopvines  planted  instead 
had  but  strangled  the  elms  without  filling  the  gap. 

Two  white  seahorses  were  mounted  at  the  door.  Within 
the  arbor  stood  a  long  bench  and  table  made  of  a  stone  slab, 
which  had  once  been  large  and  oval,  but  now  lay  in  three 
fragments  on  the  ground,  while  only  one  small  piece  was 
unsteadily  poised  on  a  corner  of  the  frame.  The  child  sat 
down  before  it,  pulled  her  feet  up  under  her  on  the  bench, 
leaned  back,  and  crossed  her  arms.  She  closed  her  eyes 
and  sat  quite  still.  Two  fine  lines  appeared  on  her  fore- 
head, and  sometimes  she  would  lift  her  eyebrows,  smiling 
slightly. 

"In  the  room  with  the  purple  carpets  and  the  gilded 
alcove,  Griselda  lies  at  the  feet  of  the  margrave,  but  he 
spurns  her.  He  has  just  torn  her  from  her  warm  bed.  Now 
he  opens  the  narrow,  round-arched  door,  and  the  cold  air 
blows  in  on  poor  Griselda,  who  lies  on  the  floor  weeping, 
and  there  is  nothing  between  the  cold  night  air  and  her 
warm,  white  body  except  the  thin,  thin  linen.  But  he  turns 
her  out  and  locks  the  door  on  her.  And  she  presses  her 
naked  shoulder  against  the  cold,  smooth  door,  and  sobs, 
and  she  hears  him  walking  inside  on  the  soft  carpet,  and 
through  the  keyhole  the  light  from  the  scented  taper  falls 
and  makes  a  little  sun  on  her  bare  breast.  And  she  steals 
away,  and  goes  down  the  dark  staircase,  and  it  is  quite  still, 
and  she  hears  nothing  but  the  soft  patter  of  her  own  feet  on 
the  ice-cold  steps.  Then  she  goes  out  into  the  snow  —  no, 
it 's  rain,  pouring  rain,  and  the  heavy  cold  water  splashes 
on  her  shoulders.  Her  shift  clings  to  her  body,  and  the  water 
runs  down  her  bare  legs,  and  her  tender  feet  press  the  soft, 
chilly  mud,  which  oozes  out  beside  them.  And  the  wind  — 


6  MARIE  GRUBBE 

the  bushes  scratch  her  and  tear  her  frock, — but  no,  she 
has  n't  any  frock  on, — just  as  they  tore  my  brown  petti- 
coat !  The  nuts  must  be  ripe  in  Fastrup  Grove — such  heaps 
of  nuts  there  were  at  Viborg  market!  God  knows  if  Anne's 
teeth  have  stopped  aching. 

"No,  Brynhild! — the  wild  steed  comes  galloping  .  .  . 
Brynhild  and  Grimhild — Queen  Grimhild  beckons  to  the 
men,  then  turns,  and  walks  away.  They  drag  in  Queen 
Brynhild,  and  a  squat,  black  yokel  with  long  arms — some- 
thing like  Bertel  in  the  turnpike  house — catches  her  belt 
and  tears  it  in  two,  and  he  pulls  off  her  robe  and  her  under- 
kirtle,  and  his  huge  black  hands  brush  the  rings  from  her 
soft  white  arms,  and  another  big,  half-naked,  brown  and 
shaggy  churl  puts  his  hairy  arm  around  her  waist,  and  he 
kicks  off  her  sandals  with  his  clumsy  feet,  and  Bertel  winds 
her  long  black  locks  around  his  hands,  and  drags  her  along, 
and  she  follows  with  body  bent  forward,  and  the  big  fellow 
puts  his  sweaty  palms  on  her  naked  back  and  shoves  her 
over  to  the  black,  fiery  stallion,  and  they  throw  her  down 
in  the  gray  dust  in  the  road,  and  they  tie  the  long  tail  of  the 
horse  around  her  ankles — " 

The  lines  came  into  her  forehead  again  and  stayed  there 
a  long  time.  She  shook  her  head  and  looked  more  and  more 
vexed.  At  last  she  opened  her  eyes,  half  rose,  and  glanced 
around  her  wearily. 

Mosquitoes  swarmed  in  the  gap  between  the  hopvines, 
and  from  the  garden  came  puffs  of  fragrance  from  mint  and 
common  balm,  mingling  sometimes  with  a  whiff  of  sow- 
thistle  or  anise.  A  dizzy  little  yellow  spider  ran  across  her 
hand,  tickling  her,  and  made  her  jump  up.  She  went  to 
the  door  and  tried  to  pick  a  rose  growing  high  among  the 
leaves,  but  could  not  reach  it.  Then  she  began  to  gather 


MARIE  GRUBBE  7 

the  blossoms  of  the  climbing  rose  outside,  and  getting  more 
and  more  eager,  soon  filled  her  skirt  with  flowers,  which 
she  carried  into  the  arbor.  She  sat  down  by  the  table,  took 
them  from  her  lap,  and  laid  one  upon  the  other  until  the 
stone  was  hidden  under  a  fragrant  cover  of  pale  rose. 

When  the  last  flower  had  been  put  in  its  place,  she 
smoothed  the  folds  of  her  frock,  brushed  off  the  loose 
petals  and  green  leaves  that  had  caught  in  the  nap,  and  sat 
with  hands  in  her  lap  gazing  at  the  blossoming  mass. 

This  bloom  of  color,  curling  in  sheen  and  shadow,  white 
flushing  to  red  and  red  paling  to  blue,  moist  pink  that  is  al- 
most heavy,  and  lavender  light  as  wafted  on  air,  each  petal 
rounded  like  a  tiny  vault,  soft  in  the  shadow,  but  gleaming 
in  the  sun  with  thousands  of  fine  light-points ;  with  all  its 
fair  blood-of-rose  flowing  in  the  veins,  spreading  through 
the  skin — and  the  sweet,  heavy  fragrance,  rising  like  vapor 
from  that  red  nectar  that  seethes  in  the  flower-cup.  .  .  . 

Suddenly  she  turned  back  her  sleeves,  and  laid  her  bare 
arms  in  the  soft,  moist  coolness  of  the  flowers.  She  turned 
them  round  and  round  under  the  roses,  until  the  loosened 
petals  fluttered  to  the  ground,  then  jumped  up  and  with  one 
motion  swept  everything  from  the  table,  and  went  out  into 
the  garden,  pulling  down  her  sleeves  as  she  walked.  With 
flushed  cheeks  and  quickened  step,  she  followed  the  path 
to  the  end,  then  skirted  the  garden  toward  the  turnpike. 
A  load  of  hay  had  just  been  overturned  and  was  blocking 
the  way  to  the  gate.  Several  other  wagons  halted  behind  it, 
and  she  could  see  the  brown  polished  stick  of  the  overseer 
gleaming  in  the  sun,  as  he  beat  the  unlucky  driver. 

She  put  her  fingers  in  her  ears  to  shut  out  the  sickening 
sound  of  the  blows,  ran  toward  the  house,  darted  within 
the  open  cellar  door,  and  slammed  it  after  her. 


8  MARIE  GRUBBE 

The  child  was  Marie  Grubbe,  the  fourteen-year-old 
daughter  of  Squire  Erik  Grubbe  of  Tjele  Manor. 

The  blue  haze  of  twilight  rested  over  Tjele.  The  falling 
dew  had  put  a  stop  to  the  haymaking.  The  maids  were  in 
the  stable  milking,  while  the  men  busied  themselves  about 
the  wagons  and  harness  in  the  shed.  The  tenant  farmers, 
after  doing  their  stint  of  work  for  the  squire,  were  standing 
in  a  group  outside  the  gate,  waiting  for  the  call  to  supper. 

Erik  Grubbe  stood  at  an  open  window,  looking  out  into 
the  court.  The  horses,  freed  from  harness  and  halter,  came 
slowly,  one  by  one,  from  the  stable  and  went  up  to  the  wa- 
tering-trough. A  red-capped  boy  was  hard  at  work  putting 
new  tines  in  a  rake,  and  two  greyhounds  played  around  the 
wooden  horse  and  the  large  grindstone  in  one  corner  of 
the  yard. 

It  was  growing  late.  Every  few  minutes  the  men  would 
come  out  of  the  stable  door  and  draw  back,  whistling  or 
humming  a  tune.  A  maid,  carrying  a  full  bucket  of  milk, 
tripped  with  quick,  firm  steps  across  the  yard,  and  the  farm- 
ers were  straggling  in,  as  though  to  hasten  the  supper-bell. 
The  rattling  of  plates  and  trenchers  grew  louder  in  the 
kitchen,  and  presently  some  one  pulled  the  bell  violently, 
letting  out  two  groups  of  rusty  notes,  which  soon  died  away 
in  the  clatter  of  wooden  shoes  and  the  creaking  of  doors. 
In  a  moment  the  yard  was  empty,  except  for  the  two  dogs 
barking  loudly  out  through  the  gate. 

Erik  Grubbe  drew  in  the  window  and  sat  down  thought- 
fully. The  room  was  known  as  the  winter-parlor,  though 
it  was  in  fact  used  all  the  year  round  for  dining-room  and 
sitting-room,  and  was  practically  the  only  inhabited  part 
of  the  house.  It  was  a  large  room  with  two  windows  and 


MARIE  GRUBBE  9 

a  high  oak  panelling.  Glazed  Dutch  tiles  covered  the  walls 
with  a  design  of  blue  nosegays  on  a  white  ground.  The  fire- 
place was  set  with  burned  bricks,  and  a  chest  of  drawers 
had  been  placed  before  it  as  a  screen  against  the  draught 
that  came  in  whenever  the  door  was  opened.  A  polished 
oak  table  with  two  rounded  leaves  hanging  almost  to  the 
floor,  a  few  high-backed  chairs  with  seats  of  leather  worn 
shiny,  and  a  small  green  cupboard  set  high  on  the  wall — 
that  was  all  there  was  in  the  parlor. 

As  Erik  Grubbe  sat  there  in  the  dusk,  his  housekeeper, 
Anne  Jensdaughter,  entered,  carrying  in  one  hand  a  lighted 
candle  and  in  the  other  a  mug  of  milk,  warm  from  the 
udder.  Placing  the  mug  before  him,  she  seated  herself  at 
the  table.  One  large  red  hand  still  held  the  candlestick, 
and  as  she  turned  it  round  and  round,  numerous  rings  and 
large  brilliants  glittered  on  her  fingers. 

*' Alack-a-day !"  she  groaned. 

"What  now?"  asked  Erik  Grubbe,  glancing  up. 

"Sure,  I  may  well  be  tired  after  stewing  'roun'  till  I've 
neither  stren'th  nor  wit  left." 

"Well,  'tis  busy  times.  Folks  have  to  work  up  heat  in 
summer  to  sit  in  all  winter." 

^'Busy — ay,but  there's  reason  in  everythin'.  Wheels  in 
ditch  an'  coach  in  splinters  's  no  king's  drivin',  say  I.  None 
but  me  to  do  a  thing!  The  indoor  wenches  're  nothin'  but 
draggle-tails, — sweethearts  an'  town-talk  's  all  they  think 
of.  Ef  they  do  a  bit  o'  work,  they  boggle  it,  an'  it's  fer  me 
to  do  over,  Walbor 's  sick,  an'  Stina  an'  Bo'l — the  sluts 
— they  pother  an'  pother  till  the  sweat  comes,  but  naught 
else  comes  o't.  I  might  ha'  some  help  from  M'ree,  ef  you  'd 
speak  to  her,  but  you  won't  let  her  put  a  finger  to  any- 
thing." 


lo  MARIE  GRUBBE 

"  Hold,  hold !  You  run  on  so  fast  you  lose  your  breath 
and  the  King's  Danish  too.  Don't  blame  me,  blame  your- 
self. If  you'd  been  patient  with  Marie  last  winter,  if  you  'd 
taught  her  gently  the  right  knack  of  things,  you  might  have 
had  some  help  from  her  now, but  you  were  rough  and  cross- 
grained,  she  was  sulky,  and  the  two  of  you  came  nigh  to 
splitting  each  other  alive.  'T  is  to  be  more  than  thankful 
for  there  's  an  end  on  't." 

"Ay,  stand  up  fer  M'ree!  You're  free  to  do  it,  but  ef 
you  stand  up  fer  yours,  I  stand  up  fer  mine,  and  whether 
you  take  it  bad  or  not,  I  tell  you  M'ree  's  more  sperrit  than 
she  can  carry  through  the  world.  Let  that  be  fer  the  fault 
it  is,  but  she's  bad.  You  may  say  'No,'  but  I  say  she  is.  She 
can  never  let  little  Anne  be — never.  She's  a-pinchin'  and 
a-naggin'  her  all  day  long  and  a-castin'  foul  words  after 
her,  till  the  poor  child  might  wish  she'd  never  been  born, 
— and  I  wish  she  had  n't,  though  it  breaks  my  heart.  Alack- 
a-day,  may  God  have  mercy  upon  us!  Ye 're  not  the  same 
father  to  the  two  children,  but  sure  it 's  right  that  the  sins 
of  the  fathers  should  be  visited  upon  the  children  unto  the 
third  and  fourth  generation — and  the  sins  of  the  mother 
too,  and  little  Anne  's  nothin'but  a  whore's  brat — ay,  I  tell 
ye  to  yer  face,  she's  nothin'  but  a  whore's  brat,  a  whore's 
brat  in  the  sight  of  God  and  man, — but  you,  her  father !  — 
shame  on  ye, shame! — yes, I  tell  ye,  even  'f  ye  lay  hands 
on  me,  as  ye  did  two  years  ago  come  Michaelmas,  shame 
on  ye!  Fie  on  ye  that  ye  let  yer  own  child  feel  she's  con- 
ceived in  sin!  ye  do  let  her  feel  it, you  and  M'ree  both  of 
ye  let  her  feel  it, — even  ef  ye  hit  me,  I  say  ye  let  her  feel 
it—" 

Erik  Grubbe  sprang  up  and  stamped  the  floor. 

"Gallows   and  wheel!  Are  you  spital-mad,  woman? 


MARIE  GRUBBE  ii 

You  're  drunk,  that 's  what  you  are.  Go  and  lie  down  on 
your  bed  and  sleep  ofF  your  booze  and  your  spleen  too ! 
'T  would  serve  you  right  if  I  boxed  your  ears,  you  shrew! 
No — not  another  word!  Marie  shall  be  gone  from  here 
before  to-morrow  is  over.  I  want  peace — in  times  of 
peace." 

Anne  sobbed  aloud. 

"O  Lord,  O  Lord,  that  such  a  thing  should  come  to 
pass — an  everlastin'  shame!  Tell  ?ne  I'm  tipsy!  In  all  the 
time  we  've  ben  together  or  all  the  time  before,  have  ye 
seen  me  in  the  scullery  with  a  fuddled  head?  Have  y'  ever 
heard  me  talkin'  drivel  ?  Show  me  the  spot  where  ye  've 
seen  me  o'ercome  with  drink!  That  's  the  thanks  I  get. 
Sleep  off  my  booze!  Would  to  God  I  might  sleep!  would 
to  God  I  might  sink  down  dead  before  you,  since  ye  put 
shame  upon  me — " 

The  dogs  began  to  bark  outside,  and  the  beat  of  horses' 
hoofs  sounded  beneath  the  windows. 

Anne  dried  her  eyes  hastily,  and  Erik  Grubbe  opened 
the  window  to  ask  who  had  come. 

"A  messenger  riding  from  Fovsing,"  answered  one  of 
the  men  about  the  house. 

"  Then  take  his  horse  and  send  him  in,"  and  with  these 
words  the  window  was  closed. 

Anne  straightened  herself  in  her  chair  and  held  up  one 
hand  to  shade  her  eyes,  red  with  weeping. 

The  messenger  presented  the  compliments  of  Christian 
Skeel  of  Fovsing  and  Odden,  Governor  of  the  Diocese, 
who  sent  to  apprise  Erik  Grubbe  of  the  notice  he  had 
that  day  received  by  royal  courier,  saying  that  war  had  been 
declared  on  June  first.  Since  it  became  necessary  that  he 
should  travel  to  Aarhus  and  possibly  even  to  Copenhagen, 


12  MARIE  GRUBBE 

he  made  inquiry  of  Erik  Grubbe  whether  he  would  accom- 
pany him  on  the  road  so  far  as  served  his  convenience,  for 
they  might  at  least  end  the  suit  they  were  bringing  against 
certain  citizens  of  Aarhus.  With  regard  to  Copenhagen, 
the  Governor  well  knew  that  Erik  Grubbe  had  plenty  of 
reasons  for  going  thither.  At  all  events,  Christian  Skeel 
would  arrive  at  Tjele  about  four  hours  after  high  noon  on 
the  following  day. 

Erik  Grubbe  replied  that  he  would  be  ready  for  the  jour- 
ney, and  the  messenger  departed  with  this  answer. 

Anne  and  Erik  Grubbe  then  discussed  at  length  all  that 
must  be  done  while  he  was  away,  and  decided  that  Marie 
should  go  with  him  to  Copenhagen  and  remain  for  a  year 
or  two  with  her  Aunt  Rigitze. 

The  impending  farewells  had  calmed  them  both, though 
the  quarrel  was  on  the  point  of  blazing  out  again  when  it 
came  to  the  question  of  letting  Marie  take  with  her  sundry 
dresses  and  jewels  that  had  belonged  to  her  dead  mother. 
The  matter  was  settled  amicably  at  last,  and  Anne  went  to 
bed  early,  for  the  next  day  would  be  a  long  one. 

Again  the  dogs  announced  visitors,  but  this  time  it  was 
only  the  pastor  of  Tjele  and  Vinge  parish,  Jens  Jensen 
Paludan. 

"Good  even  to  the  house!"  he  said  as  he  stepped  in. 

He  was  a  large-boned,  long-limbed  man,  with  a  stoop  in 
his  broad  shoulders.  His  hair  was  rough  as  a  crow's  nest, 
grayish  and  tangled,  but  his  face  was  of  a  deep  yet  clear 
pink,  seemingly  out  of  keeping  with  his  coarse,  rugged 
features  and  bushy  eyebrows. 

Erik  Grubbe  invited  him  to  a  seat  and  asked  about  his 
haymaking.  The  conversation  dwelt  on  the  chief  labors  of 
the  farm  at  that  season  and  died  away  in  a  sigh  over  the 


MARIE  GRUBBE  .3 

poor  harvest  of  last  year.  Meanwhile  the  pastor  was  cast- 
ing sidelong  glances  at  the  mug  and  finally  said:  "Your 
honor  is  always  temperate — keeping  to  the  natural  drinks. 
No  doubt  they  are  the  healthiest.  New  milk  is  a  blessed 
gift  of  heaven,  good  both  for  a  weak  stomach  and  a  sore 
chest." 

"Indeed  the  gifts  of  God  are  all  good,  whether  they  come 
from  the  udder  or  the  tap.  But  you  must  taste  a  keg  of  gen- 
uine mum  that  we  brought  home  from  Viborg  the  other 
day.  She's  both  good  and  German,  though  I  can't  see  that 
the  customs  have  put  their  mark  on  her." 

Goblets  and  a  large  ebony  tankard  ornamented  with  sil- 
ver rings  were  brought  in  and  set  before  them. 

They  drank  to  each  other. 

"Heydenkamper!  Genuine,  peerless  Heydenkamper!" 
exclaimed  the  pastor  in  a  voice  that  trembled  with  emotion. 
He  leaned  back  blissfully  in  his  chair  and  very  nearly  shed 
tears  of  enthusiasm. 

*'You  are  a  connoisseur,"  smirked  Erik  Grubbe. 

"Ah,  connoisseur!  We  are  but  of  yesterday  and  know 
nothing,"  murmured  the  pastor  absent-mindedly,  "though 
I'm  wondering,"  he  went  on  in  a  louder  voice,  "whether 
it  be  true  what  I  have  been  told  about  the  brew-house  of 
the  Heydenkampers.  'T  was  a  free-master  who  related  it  in 
Hanover,  the  time  I  travelled  with  young  Master  Jorgen. 
He  said  they  would  always  begin  the  brew  on  a  Friday 
night,  but  before  any  one  was  allowed  to  put  a  finger  to  it  he 
had  to  go  to  the  oldest  journeyman  and  lay  his  hand  on  the 
great  scales  and  swear  by  fire  and  blood  and  water  that  he 
harbored  no  spiteful  or  evil  thoughts,  for  such  might  harm 
the  beer.  The  man  also  told  me  that  on  Sundays,  when  the 
church-bells  sounded,  they  would  open  all  the  doors  and 


n  MARIE  GRURRE 

windows  to  let  the  ringing  pass  over  the  beer.  But  the  most 
important  of  all  was  what  took  place  when  they  set  the 
brew  aside  to  ferment;  for  then  the  master  himself  would 
bring  a  splendid  chest,  from  which  he  would  take  heavy 
gold  rings  and  chains  and  precious  stones  inscribed  with 
strange  signs,  and  all  these  would  be  put  into  the  beer.  In 
truth,  one  may  well  believe  that  these  noble  treasures  would 
impart  to  it  something  of  their  own  secret  potency  given 
them  by  nature." 

"That  is  not  for  us  to  say,"  declared  Erik  Grubbe.  "I 
have  more  faith,  I  own,  in  the  Brunswick  hops  and  the 
other  herbs  they  mix." 

"Nay,"  said  the  pastor,  "it  were  wrong  to  think  so, 
for  there  is  much  that  is  hidden  from  us  in  the  realm  of 
nature, — of  that  there  can  be  no  doubt.  Everything,  liv- 
ing or  dead,  has  its  miraculum  within  it,  and  we  need  but 
patience  to  seek  and  open  eyes  to  find.  Alas,  in  the  old 
days  when  it  was  not  so  long  since  the  Lord  had  taken  his 
hands  from  the  earth,  then  all  things  were  still  so  engirded 
with  his  power  that  they  exhaled  healing  and  all  that  was 
good  for  time  and  eternity.  But  now  the  earth  is  no  longer 
new  nor  fine:  it  is  defiled  with  the  sins  of  many  genera- 
tions. Now  it  is  only  at  particular  times  that  these  powers 
manifest  themselves,  at  certain  places  and  certain  seasons, 
when  strange  signs  may  be  seen  in  the  heavens, — as  I 
was  saying  to  the  blacksmith,  when  we  spoke  of  the  awful 
flaming  light  that  has  been  visible  in  half  the  heavens  for 
several  nights  recently.  .  .  .  That  reminds  me,  a  mounted 
courier  passed  us  just  then ;  he  was  bound  this  way,  I  think." 

"So  he  was,  Pastor  Jens." 

"I  hope  he  rode  with  none  but  good  tidings?" 

"  He  rode  with  the  tidings  that  war  has  been  declared." 


MARIE  GRUBBE  15 

"Lord  Jesu!  Alas  the  day!  Yet  it  had  to  come  some 
time." 

"Ay,  but  when  they'd  waited  so  long,  they  might  as 
well  have  waited  till  folks  had  their  harvest  in." 

"'Tis  the  Skaanings  who  are  back  of  it,  I  make  no 
doubt.  They  still  feel  the  smart  of  the  last  war  and  would 
seek  balm  in  this." 

"Oh,  it's  not  only  the  Skaanings.  The  Sjælland  people 
are  ever  spoiling  for  war.  They  know  it  will  pass  them  by  as 
usual.  Well,  it's  a  good  time  for  neats  and  fools,  when  the 
Councillors  of  the  Realm  have  gone  mad  one  and  all ! " 

"  'T  is  said  the  Lord  High  Constable  did  not  desire  war." 

*'  May  the  devil  believe  that !  Perhaps  not — but  there  's 
little  to  be  made  of  preaching  quiet  in  an  ant-hill.  Well,  the 
war 's  here,  and  now  it's  every  man  for  himself.  We  shall 
have  our  hands  full." 

The  conversation  turned  to  the  journey  of  the  morrow, 
passed  on  to  the  bad  roads,  lingered  on  fatted  oxen  and 
stall-feeding,  and  again  reverted  to  the  journey.  Meanwhile 
they  had  not  neglected  the  tankard.  The  beer  had  gone  to 
their  heads,  and  Erik  Grubbe,  who  was  just  telling  about 
his  voyage  to  Ceylon  and  the  East  Indies  in  the  "  Pearl," 
had  difficulty  in  making  headway  through  his  own  laughter, 
whenever  a  new  joke  came  to  his  mind. 

The  pastor  was  getting  serious.  He  had  collapsed  in 
his  chair,  but  once  in  a  while  he  would  turn  his  head,  look 
fiercely  around,  and  move  his  lips  as  though  to  speak.  He 
was  gesticulating  with  one  hand,  growing  more  and  more 
excited,  until  at  last  he  happened  to  strike  the  table  with  his 
fist,  and  sank  down  again  with  a  frightened  look  at  Erik 
Grubbe.  Finally,  when  the  squire  had  got  himself  quite 
tangled  up  in  a  story  of  an  excessively  stupid  scullery  lad, 


i6  MARIE  GRUBBE 

the  pastor  rose  and  began  to  speak  in  a  hollow,  solemn 
voice. 

"Verily,"  he  said,  "verily,  I  will  bear  witness  with  my 
mouth — with  my  mouth — that  you  are  an  offence  and  one 
by  whom  offence  cometh — that  it  were  better  for  you  that 
you  were  cast  into  the  sea — verily,  with  a  millstone  and 
two  barrels  of  malt — the  two  barrels  of  malt  that  you  owe 
me,  as  I  bear  witness  solemnly  with  my  mouth — two  heap- 
ing full  barrels  of  malt  in  my  own  new  sacks.  For  they 
were  not  my  sacks,  never  kingdom  without  end, 'twas  your 
own  old  sacks,  and  my  new  ones  you  kept, — and  it  was 
rotten  malt — verily!  See  the  abomination  of  desolation, 
and  the  sacks  are  mine,  and  I  will  repay — vengeance  is 
mine,  I  say.  Do  you  not  tremble  in  your  old  bones — you 
old  whoremonger?  You  should  live  like  a  Christian — but 
you  live  with  Anne  Jensdaughter  and  make  her  cheat  a 
Christian  pastor.  You're  a — you're  a — Christian  whore- 
monger— yes — " 

During  the  first  part  of  the  pastor's  speech,  Erik  Grubbe 
sat  smiling  fatuously  and  holding  out  his  hand  to  him  across 
the  table.  He  thrust  out  his  elbow  as  though  to  poke  an 
invisible  auditor  in  the  ribs  and  call  his  attention  to  how 
delightfully  drunk  the  parson  was.  But  at  last  some  sense 
of  what  was  being  said  appeared  to  pierce  his  mind.  His 
face  suddenly  became  chalky  white;  he  seized  the  tankard 
and  threw  it  at  the  pastor,  who  fell  backward  from  his  chair 
and  slipped  to  the  f^oor.  It  was  nothing  but  fright  that  caused 
it,  for  the  tankard  failed  to  reach  its  mark.  It  merely  rolled 
to  the  edge  of  the  table  and  lay  there,  while  the  beer  flowed 
in  rivulets  down  on  the  floor  and  the  pastor. 

The  candle  had  burned  low  and  was  flaring  fitfully, 
sometimes  lighting  the  room  brightly  for  a  moment,  then 


MARIE  GRUBBE  17 

leaving  it  almost  in  darkness,  while  the  blue  dawn  peeped 
in  through  the  windows. 

The  pastor  was  still  talking,  his  voice  first  deep  and 
threatening,  then  feeble,  almost  whining. 

"There  you  sit  in  gold  and  purple,  and  I'm  laid  here, 
and  the  dogs  lick  my  sores, — and  what  did  you  drop  in 
Abraham's  bosom?  What  did  you  put  on  the  contribu- 
tion plate?  You  didn't  give  so  much  as  a  silver  eightpenny 
bit  in  Christian  Abraham's  bosom.  And  now  you  are  in 
torments — but  no  one  shall  dip  the  tip  of  his  finger  in 
water  for  you," — and  he  struck  out  with  his  hand  in  the 
spilled  beer, — "but  I  wash  my  hands — both  hands  —  I 
have  warned  you — hi !  — there  you  go — yes,  there  you  go 
in  sackcloth  and  ashes — my  two  new  sacks — malt — " 

He  mumbled  yet  a  while,  then  dropped  asleep.  Mean- 
while Erik  Grubbe  tried  to  take  revenge.  He  caught  the 
arm  of  his  chair  firmly,  stretched  to  his  full  length,  and 
kicked  the  leg  of  the  chair  with  all  his  might,  in  the  hope 
that  it  was  the  pastor. 

Presently  all  was  still.  There  was  no  sound  but  the  snor- 
ing of  the  two  old  gentlemen  and  the  monotonous  drip, 
drip  of  the  beer  running  from  the  table. 


CHAPTER  II 

MISTRESS  RiGiTZE  Grubbe,  relict  of  the  late  la- 
mented Hans  Ulrik  Gyldenlove,  owned  a  house 
on  the  corner  of  Ostergade  and  Pilestræde.  At  that  time, 
Ostergadewas  a  fairly  aristocratic  residence  section.  Mem- 
bers of  the  Trolle,  Sehested,  Rosencrantz,  and  Krag  fami- 
lies lived  there;  Joachim  Gersdorf  was  Mistress  Rigitze's 
neighbor,  and  one  or  two  foreign  ministers  usually  had 
lodgings  in  Carl  van  Mandern's  new  red  mansion.  Only 
one  side  of  the  street  was  the  home  of  fashion,  however; 
on  the  other  side,  Nikolaj  Church  was  flanked  by  low 
houses,  where  dwelt  artisans,  shopkeepers,  and  shipmas- 
ters. There  were  also  one  or  two  taverns. 

On  a  Sunday  morning,  early  in  September,  Marie 
Grubbe  stood  looking  out  of  the  dormer  window  in 
Mistress  Rigitze's  house.  Not  a  vehicle  in  sight!  Noth- 
ing but  staid  footsteps,  and  now  and  then  the  long-drawn 
cry  of  the  oyster-monger.  The  sunlight,  quivering  over 
roofs  and  pavements,  threw  sharp,  black,  almost  rectangu- 
lar shadows.  The  distance  swam  in  a  faint  bluish  heat 
mist. 

"  At-tention ! "  called  a  woman's  voice  behind  her,  clev- 
erly mimicking  the  raucous  tones  of  one  accustomed  to 
much  shouting  of  military  orders. 

Marie  turned.  Her  aunt's  maid,  Lucie, had  for  some  time 
been  sitting  on  the  table,  appraising  her  own  well-formed 
feet  with  critical  eyes.  Tired  of  this  occupation,  she  had 
called  out,  and  now  sat  swinging  her  legs  and  laughing 
merrily. 

Marie  shrugged  her  shoulders  with  a  rather  bored  smile 
and  would  have  returned  to  her  window-gazing,  but  Lucie 


MARIE  GRUBBE  19 

jumped  down  from  the  table,  caught  her  by  the  waist,  and 
forced  her  down  on  a  small  rush-bottomed  chair. 

"  Look  here,  Miss,"  she  said,  "  shall  I  tell  you  some- 
thing?" 

"Well?" 

"You've  forgot  to  write  your  letter,  and  the  company 
will  be  here  at  half-past  one  o'clock,  so  you've  scarce  four 
hours.  D'you  know  what  they're  going  to  have  for  din- 
ner? Clear  soup,  flounder  or  some  such  broad  fish,  chicken 
pasty,  Mansfeld  tart,  and  sweet  plum  compote.  Faith,  it's 
fine,  but  not  fat!  Your  sweetheart's  coming.  Miss?" 

*' Nonsense!"  said  Marie  crossly. 

"  Lord  help  me !  It 's  neither  banns  nor  betrothal  because 
I  say  so!  But,  Miss,  I  can't  see  why  you  don't  set  more 
store  by  your  cousin.  He  is  the  pret-tiest,  most  be-witch- 
ing  man  I  ever  saw.  Such  feet  he  has!  And  there's  royal 
blood  in  him — you've  only  to  look  at  his  hands,  so  tiny 
and  shaped  like  a  mould,  and  his  nails  no  larger  than  silver 
groats  and  so  pink  and  round.  Such  a  pair  of  legs  he  can 
muster!  When  he  walks  it's  like  steel  springs, and  his  eyes 
blow  sparks — " 

She  threw  her  arms  around  Marie  and  kissed  her  neck 
so  passionately  and  covetously  that  the  child  blushed  and 
drew  herself  out  of  the  embrace. 

Lucie  flung  herself  down  on  the  bed,  laughing  wildly. 

"  How  silly  you  are  to-day,"  cried  Marie.  *'  If  you  carry 
on  like  this,  I  '11  go  downstairs." 

"Merciful!  Let  me  be  merry  once  in  a  while!  Faith, 
there's  trouble  enough,  and  I  've  more  than  I  can  do  with. 
With  my  sweetheart  in  the  war,  sufi^ering  ill  and  worse — 
it's  enough  to  break  one's  heart.  What  if  they  've  shot  him 
dead  or  crippled !  God  pity  me,  poor  maid,  I  'd  never  get 


20  MARIE  GRUBBE 

over  it."  She  hid  her  face  in  the  bedclothes  and  sobbed: 
*'Oh,  no,  no,  no,  my  own  dear  Lorens  —  I'd  be  so  true 
to  you,  if  the  Lord  would  only  bring  you  back  to  me  safe 
and  sound!  Oh,  Miss,  I  canU  bear  it!" 

Marie  tried  to  soothe  her  with  words  and  caresses,  and  at 
last  she  succeeded  in  making  Lucie  sit  up  and  wipe  her  eyes. 

*' Indeed,  Miss,"  she  said,  "no  one  knows  how  miser- 
able I  am.  You  see,  I  can't  possibly  behave  as  I  should  all 
the  time.  'T  is  no  use  I  resolve  to  set  no  store  by  the  young 
men.  When  they  begin  jesting  and  passing  compliments, 
my  tongue 's  got  an  itch  to  answer  them  back,  and  then 
't  is  true  more  foolery  comes  of  it  than  I  could  answer  for 
to  Lorens.  But  when  I  think  of  the  danger  he  's  in,  oh, 
then  I  'm  more  sorry  than  any  living  soul  can  think.  For  I 
love  him.  Miss,  and  no  one  else,  upon  my  soul  I  do.  And 
when  I  'm  in  bed,  with  the  moon  shining  straight  in  on  the 
floor,  I  'm  like  another  woman,  and  everything  seems  so 
sad,  and  I  weep  and  weep,  and  something  gets  me  by  the 
throat  till  I'm  like  to  choke — it 's  terrible!  Then  I  keep 
tossing  in  my  bed  and  praying  to  God,  though  I  scarce 
know  what  I'm  praying  for.  Sometimes  I  sit  up  in  bed 
and  catch  hold  of  my  head  and  it  seems  as  if  I  'd  lose  my 
wits  with  longing.  Why,  goodness  me.  Miss,  you  're  cry- 
ing! Sure  you  're  not  longing  for  any  one  in  secret — and 
you  so  young?" 

Marie  blushed  and  smiled  faintly.  There  was  something 
flattering  in  the  idea  that  she  might  be  pining  for  a  lover. 

"No,  no,"  she  said,  "but  what  you  say  is  so  sad.  You 
make  it  seem  as  if  there  's  naught  but  misery  and  trouble." 

"  Bless  me,  no,  there  's  a  little  of  other  things  too,"  said 
Lucie,  rising  in  answer  to  a  summons  from  below,  and 
nodding  archly  to  Marie,  as  she  went. 


MARIE  GRUBBE  21 

Marie  sighed  and  returned  to  the  window.  She  looked 
down  into  the  cool,  green  graveyard  of  St.  Nikolaj,  at  the 
red  walls  of  the  church,  over  the  tarnished  copper  roof  of 
the  castle,  past  the  royal  dockyard  and  ropewalk  around 
to  the  slender  spire  of  East  Gate,  past  the  gardens  and 
wooden  cottages  of  Hallandsaas,  to  the  bluish  Sound  melt- 
ing into  the  blue  sky,  where  softly  moulded  cloud-masses 
were  drifting  to  the  Skaane  shore. 

Three  months  had  passed  since  she  came  to  Copenhagen. 
When  she  left  home  she  had  supposed  that  life  in  the  resi- 
dential city  must  be  something  vastly  different  from  what 
she  had  found.  It  had  never  occurred  to  her  that  she  might 
be  more  lonely  there  than  at  Tjele  Manor,  where,  in  truth, 
she  had  been  lonely  enough.  Her  father  had  never  been 
a  companion  to  her,  for  he  was  too  entirely  himself  to  be 
anything  to  others.  He  never  became  young  when  he  spoke 
to  fourteen  years  nor  feminine  when  he  addressed  a  little 
maid.  He  was  always  on  the  shady  side  of  fifty  and  always 
Erik  Grubbe. 

As  for  his  concubine,  who  ruled  as  though  she  were  in- 
deed mistress  of  the  house,  the  mere  sight  of  her  was  enough 
to  call  out  all  there  was  of  pride  and  bitterness  in  Marie. 
This  coarse,  domineering  peasant  woman  had  wounded 
and  tortured  her  so  often  that  the  girl  could  hardly  hear 
her  step  without  instantly  and  half  unconsciously  harden- 
ing into  obstinacy  and  hatred.  Little  Anne,  her  half-sister, 
was  sickly  and  spoiled,  which  did  not  make  it  easier  to  get 
along  with  her,  and  to  crown  all,  the  mother  made  the 
child  her  excuse  for  abusing  Marie  to  Erik  Grubbe. 

Who,  then,  were  her  companions  ? 

She  knew  every  path  and  road  in  Bigum  woods,  every 
cow  that  pastured  in  the  meadows,  every  fowl  in  the  hen- 


22  MARIE  GRUBBE 

coop.  The  kindly  greeting  of  the  servants  and  peasants 
when  she  met  them  seemed  to  say :  Our  young  lady  suffers 
wrong,  and  we  know  it.  We  are  sorry,  and  we  hate  the 
woman  up  there  as  much  as  you  do. 

But  in  Copenhagen? 

There  was  Lucie,  and  she  was  very  fond  of  her,  but 
after  all  she  was  a  servant.  Marie  was  in  Lucie's  confi- 
dence and  was  pleased  and  grateful  for  it,  but  Lucie  was 
not  in  her  confidence.  She  could  not  tell  her  troubles  to  the 
maid.  Nor  could  she  bear  to  have  the  fact  of  her  unfortu- 
nate position  put  into  words  or  hear  a  servant  discuss  her 
unhappy  family  affairs.  She  would  not  even  brook  a  word 
of  criticism  against  her  aunt,  though  she  certainly  did  not 
love  her  father's  kinswoman  and  had  no  reason  to  love  her. 

Rigitze  Grubbe  held  the  theories  of  her  time  on  the  sal- 
utary effects  of  harsh  discipline,  and  she  set  herself  to  bring 
up  Marie  accordingly.  She  had  never  had  any  children  of 
her  own,  and  she  was  not  only  a  very  impatient  foster- 
mother,  but  also  clumsy,  for  mother  love  had  never  taught 
her  the  useful  little  arts  that  smooth  the  way  for  teacher 
and  pupil.  Yet  a  severe  training  might  have  been  very  good 
for  Marie.  The  lack  of  watchful  care  in  her  home  had  al- 
lowed one  side  of  her  nature  to  grow  almost  too  luxuriantly, 
while  the  other  had  been  maimed  and  stunted  by  capricious 
cruelty,  and  she  might  have  felt  it  a  relief  to  be  guided  in 
the  way  she  should  go  by  the  hard  and  steady  hand  of  one 
who  in  all  common  sense  could  wish  her  nothing  but  good. 

Yet  she  was  not  so  guided.  Mistress  Rigitze  had  so 
many  irons  in  the  fire  of  politics  and  court  intrigue  that  she 
was  often  away  for  days,  and  when  at  home  she  would  be 
so  preoccupied  that  Marie  did  with  herself  and  her  time 
what  she  pleased.  When  Mistress  Rigitze  had  a  moment  to 


MARIE  GRUBBE  23 

spare  for  the  child,  the  very  consciousness  of  her  own  neg- 
lect made  her  doubly  irritable.  The  whole  relation  there- 
fore wore  to  Marie  an  utterly  unreasonable  aspect,  and  was 
fitted  to  give  her  the  notion  that  she  was  an  outcast  whom 
all  hated  and  none  loved. 

As  she  stood  at  the  window  looking  out  over  the  city, 
this  sense  of  forlornness  came  over  her  again.  She  leaned 
her  head  against  the  casement  and  lost  herself  in  contem- 
plation of  the  slowly  gliding  clouds. 

She  understood  what  Lucie  had  said  about  the  pain  of 
longing.  It  was  like  something  burning  inside  of  you,  and 
there  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  let  it  burn  and  burn — how 
well  she  knew  it!  What  would  come  of  it  all?  —  One  day 
just  likeanother — nothing, nothing, — nothingtolook  for- 
ward to.  Could  it  last  ?  Yes,  for  a  long  time  yet !  Even  when 
she  had  passed  sixteen?  —  But  things  did  happen  to  other 
people!  At  least  she  wouldn't  go  on  wearing  a  child's  cap 
after  she  was  sixteen;  sister  Anne  Marie  hadn't — she  had 
been  married.  Marie  remembered  the  noisy  carousing  at 
the  wedding  long  after  she  had  been  sent  to  bed  —  and  the 
music.  Well,  at  least  she  could  be  married.  But  to  whom? 
Perhaps  to  the  brother  of  her  sister's  husband.  To  be  sure, 
he  was  frightfully  ugly,  but  if  there  was  nothing  else  for 
it — No,  that  certainly  was  nothing  to  look  forward  to. 
Was  there  anything?  Not  that  she  could  see. 

She  left  the  window,  sat  down  by  the  table  thoughtfully, 
and  began  to  write: 

My  loving  greeting  always  in  the  name  of  Our  Lord,  dear 
Anne  Marie,  good  sister  and  friend !  God  keep  you  always 
and  be  praised  for  His  mercies.  I  have  taken  upon  my- 
self to  write  pour  vous  congratuler  inasmuch  as  you  have 


24  MARIE  GRUBBE 

been  fortunately  delivered  of  child  and  are  now  restored 
to  good  health.  Dear  sister,!  am  well  and  hearty.  Our  Aunt, 
as  you  know,  lives  in  much  splendor,  and  we  often  have 
company,  chiefly  gentlemen  of  the  court,  and  with  the  ex- 
ception of  a  few  old  dames,  none  visit  us  but  men  folks. 
Many  of  them  have  known  our  blessed  mother  and  praise 
her  beauty  and  virtue.  I  always  sit  at  table  with  the  com- 
pany, but  no  one  speaks  to  me  except  Ulrik  Frederik, 
whom  I  would  prefer  to  do  without,  for  he  is  ever  given 
to  bantering  and  raillerie  rather  than  sensible  conversation. 
He  is  yet  young  and  is  not  in  the  best  repute;  'tis  said  he 
frequents  both  taverns  and  ale-houses  and  the  like.  Now 
I  have  nothing  new  to  tell  except  that  to-day  we  have  an 
assembly,  and  he  is  coming.  Whenever  I  speak  French  he 
laughs  very  much  and  tells  me  that  it  is  a  hundred  years 
old,  which  may  well  be,  for  Pastor  Jens  was  a  mere  youth 
at  the  time  of  his  travels.  Yet  he  gives  me  praise  because 
I  put  it  together  well,  so  that  no  lady  of  the  court  can  do 
it  better,  he  says,  but  this  I  believe  to  be  but  compliments, 
about  which  I  care  nothing.  I  have  had  no  word  from  Tjele. 
Our  Aunt  cannot  speak  without  cursing  and  lamenting 
of  the  enormity  that  our  dear  father  should  live  as  he  does 
with  a  female  of  such  lowly  extraction.  I  grieve  sorely,  but 
that  gives  no  boot  for  bane.  You  must  not  let  Stycho  see 
this  letter,  but  give  him  greeting  from  my  heart.  September, 

1657. 

Your  dear  sister, 

MARIE  GRUBBE. 

The  honorable  Mistress  Anne  Marie  Grubbe,  consort  of  Stycho  Hoegh 
of  Gjordslev,  my  good  friend  and  sister,  written  in  all  loving-kindness. 

The  guests  had  risen  from  the  table  and  entered  the  draw- 


MARIE  GRUBBE  25 

ing-room,  where  Lucie  was  passing  the  golden  Dantzig 
brandy.  Marie  had  taken  refuge  in  a  bay-window,  half 
hidden  by  the  full  curtains.  Ulrik  Frederik  went  over  to 
her,  bowed  with  exaggerated  deference,  and  with  a  very 
grave  face  expressed  his  disappointment  at  having  been 
seated  so  far  from  mademoiselle  at  the  table.  As  he  spoke, 
he  rested  his  small  brown  hand  on  the  window-sill.  Marie 
looked  at  it  and  blushed  scarlet. 

'■'-  Pardon^  Mademoiselle,  I  see  that  you  are  flushing  with 
anger.  Permit  me  to  present  my  most  humble  service !  Might 
I  make  so  bold  as  to  ask  how  I  have  had  the  misfortune  to 
ofFend  you  ?" 

"Indeed  I  am  neither  flushed  nor  angry." 

"Ah,  so  'tis  your  pleasure  to  call  that  color  white? 
Bien  !  But  then  I  would  fain  know  by  what  name  you  desig- 
nate the  rose  commonly  known  as  red!" 

"Can  you  never  say  a  sensible  word?" 

"Hm — let  me  see  —  ay,  it  has  happened,  I  own,  but 
rarely  — 

Doch  Chloe,  Chloe  zurne  nicht! 
Toll  brennet  deiner  Augen  Licht 
Mich  wie  das  Hundsgestirn  die  Hunde, 
Und  Worte  schåumen  mir  vom  Munde 
Dem  Geifer  gleich  der  Wasserscheu — " 

"Forsooth,  you  may  well  say  that!" 

"y/cÅ,  Mademoiselle, 'tisbut  littleyou  knowof  the  power 
of  Eros !  Upon  my  word,  there  are  nights  when  I  have  been 
so  lovesick  I  have  stolen  down  through  the  Silk  Yard  and 
leaped  the  balustrade  into  Christen  Skeel's  garden,  and 
there  I  've  stood  like  a  statue  among  fragrant  roses  and 


26  MARIE  GRUBBE 

violets,  till  the  languishing  Aurora  has  run  her  fingers 
through  my  locks." 

"Ah,  Monsieur,  you  were  surely  mistaken  when  you 
spoke  of  Eros;  it  must  have  been  Evan — and  you  may 
well  go  astray  when  you're  brawling  around  at  night-time. 
You've  never  stood  in  Skeel's  garden;  you  've  been  at  the 
sign  of  Mogens  in  Cappadocia  among  bottles  and  Rhenish 
wineglasses,  and  if  you've  been  still  as  a  statue,  it's  been 
something  besides  dreams  of  love  that  robbed  you  of  the 
power  to  move  your  legs." 

"You   wrong   me  greatly!  Though  I  may  go  to  the 
vintner's  house  sometimes,  't  is  not  for  pleasure  nor  rev- 
elry, but  to  forget  the  gnawing  anguish  that  afflicts  me." 
"Ah!" 

"You  have  no  faith  in  me;  you  do  not  trust  to  the  con- 
stancy of  my  amour!  Heavens!  Do  you  see  the  eastern 
louver-window  in  St.  Nikolaj  ?  For  three  long  days  have 
I  sat  there  gazing  at  your  fair  countenance,  as  you  bent 
over  your  broidery  frame." 

"How  unlucky  you  are!  You  can  scarce  open  your 
mouth,  but  I  can  catch  you  in  loose  talk.  I  never  sit  with 
my  broidery  frame  toward  St.  Nikolaj.  Do  you  know  this 
rigmarole  ?  — 

'T  was  black  night, 

Troll  was  in  a  plight; 

For  man  held  him  tight. 

To  the  troll  said  he: 
*  If  you  would  be  free, 

Then  teach  me  quick. 

Without  guile  or  trick. 

One  word  of  perfect  truth,* 


MARIE  GRUBBE  27 

Up  spake  the  troll:  'In  sooth!' 

Man  let  him  go. 

None  on  earth,  I  trow, 

Could  call  troll  liar  for  saying  so." 

Ulrik  Frederik  bowed  deferentially  and  left  her  without 
a  word. 

She  looked  after  him,  as  he  crossed  the  room.  He  did 
walk  gracefully.  His  silk  hose  fitted  him  without  fold  or 
wrinkle.  How  pretty  they  were  at  the  ankle,  where  they 
met  the  long,  narrow  shoe!  She  liked  to  look  at  him.  She 
had  never  before  noticed  that  he  had  a  tiny  pink  scar  in 
his  forehead. 

Furtively  she  glanced  at  her  own  hands  and  made  a 
slight  grimace, —  the  fingers  seemed  to  her  too  short. 


CHAPTER  III 

WINTER  came  with  hard  times  for  the  beasts  of 
the  forest  and  the  birds  of  the  fields.  It  was  a  poor 
Christmas  within  mud-walled  huts  and  timbered  ships. 
The  Western  Sea  was  thickly  studded  with  wrecks,  icy 
hulks,  splintered  masts,  broken  boats,  and  dead  ships.  Ar- 
gosies were  hurled  upon  the  coast,  shattered  to  worthless 
fragments,  sunk,  swept  away,  or  buried  in  the  sand;  for 
the  gale  blew  toward  land  with  a  high  sea  and  deadly  cold, 
and  human  hands  were  powerless  against  it.  Heaven  and 
earth  were  one  reek  of  stinging,  whirling  snow  that  drifted 
in  through  cracked  shutters  and  ill-fitting  hatches  to  pov- 
erty and  rags,  and  pierced  under  eaves  and  doors  to  wealth 
and  fur-bordered  mantles.  Beggars  and  wayfaring  folk 
froze  to  death  in  the  shelter  of  ditches  and  dikes;  poor 
people  died  of  cold  on  their  bed  of  straw,  and  the  cattle  of 
the  rich  fared  not  much  better. 

The  storm  abated,  and  after  it  came  a  clear,  tingling 
frost,  which  brought  disaster  on  the  land — winter  pay  for 
summer  folly !  The  Swedish  army  walked  over  the  Danish 
waters.  Peace  was  declared,  and  spring  followed  with  green 
budding  leaves  and  fair  weather,  but  the  young  men  of 
Sjælland  did  not  ride  a-Maying  that  year;  for  the  Swedish 
soldiers  were  everywhere.  There  was  peace  indeed,  but  it 
carried  the  burdens  of  war  and  seemed  not  likely  to  live 
long.  Nor  did  it.  When  the  May  garlands  had  turned  dark 
and  stiff  under  themidsummer  sun, the  Swedes  went  against 
the  ramparts  of  Copenhagen. 

During  vesper  service  on  the  second  Sunday  in  August, 
the  tidings  suddenly  came:  "The  Swedes  have  landed  at 
Korsor."  Instantly  the  streets  were  thronged.  People  walked 


MARIE  GRUBBE  29 

about  quietly  and  soberly,  but  they  talked  a  great  deal ;  they 
all  talked  at  once,  and  the  sound  of  their  voices  and  foot- 
steps swelled  to  a  loud  murmur  that  neither  rose  nor  fell 
and  never  ceased,  but  went  on  with  a  strange,  heavy  mo- 
notony. 

The  rumor  crept  into  the  churches  during  the  sermon. 
From  the  seats  nearest  the  door  it  leaped  in  a  breathless 
whisper  to  some  one  sitting  in  the  next  pew,  then  on  to 
three  people  in  the  third,  then  past  a  lonely  old  man  in 
the  fourth  on  to  the  fifth,  and  so  on  till  the  whole  con- 
gregation knew  it.  Those  in  the  centre  turned  and  nodded 
meaningly  to  people  behind  them;  one  or  two  who  were 
sitting  nearest  the  pulpit  rose  and  looked  apprehensively 
toward  the  door.  Soon  there  was  not  a  face  lifted  to  the  pas- 
tor. All  sat  with  heads  bent  as  though  to  fix  their  thoughts 
on  the  sermon,  but  they  whispered  among  themselves, 
stopped  for  a  tense  moment  and  listened  in  order  to  gauge 
how  far  it  was  from  the  end,  then  whispered  again.  The 
muffled  noise  from  the  crowds  in  the  streets  grew  more 
distinct :  it  was  not  to  be  borne  any  longer !  The  church- 
people  busied  themselves  putting  their  hymn-books  in  their 
pockets. 

"Amen!" 

Every  face  turned  to  the  preacher.  During  the  litany 
prayer,  all  wondered  whether  the  pastor  had  heard  any- 
thing. He  read  the  supplication  for  the  Royal  House,  the 
Councillors  of  the  Realm,  and  the  common  nobility,  for  all 
who  were  in  authority  or  entrusted  with  high  office, — and 
at  that  tears  sprang  to  many  eyes.  As  the  prayer  went  on, 
there  was  a  sound  of  sobbing,  but  the  words  came  from 
hundreds  of  lips:  "May  God  in  His  mercy  deliver  these 
our  lands  and  kingdoms  from  battle  and  murder,  pestilence 


30  MARIE  GRUBBE 

and  sudden  death,  famine  and  drouth,  lightning  and  tem- 
pest, floods  and  fire,  and  may  we  for  such  fatherly  mercy 
praise  and  glorify  His  holy  name!" 

Before  the  hymn  had  ended,  the  church  was  empty,  and 
only  the  voice  of  the  organ  sang  within  it. 

On  the  following  day,  the  people  were  again  thronging 
the  streets,  but  by  this  time  they  seemed  to  have  gained 
some  definite  direction.  The  Swedish  fleet  had  that  night 
anchored  outside  of  Dragor.  Yet  the  populace  was  calmer 
than  the  day  before;  for  it  was  generally  known  that  two 
of  the  Councillors  of  the  Realm  had  gone  to  parley  with 
the  enemy,  and  were — so  it  was  said — entrusted  with 
powers  sufficient  to  ensure  peace.  But  when  the  Councillors 
returned  on  Tuesday  with  the  news  that  they  had  been 
unable  to  make  peace,  there  was  a  sudden  and  violent 
reaction. 

This  was  no  longer  an  assemblage  of  staid  citizens 
grown  restless  under  the  stress  of  great  and  ominous  tid- 
ings. No,  it  was  a  maelstrom  of  uncouth  creatures,  the 
like  of  which  had  never  been  seen  within  the  ramparts  of 
Copenhagen.  Could  they  have  come  out  of  these  quiet,  re- 
spectable houses  bearing  marks  of  sober  every-day  busi- 
ness ?  What  raving  in  long-sleeved  sack  and  great-skirted 
coat!  What  bedlam  noise  from  grave  lips  and  frenzied  ges- 
tures of  tight-dressed  arms!  None  would  be  alone,  none 
would  stay  indoors,  all  wanted  to  stand  in  the  middle  of 
the  street  with  their  despair,  their  tears,  and  wailing.  See 
that  stately  old  man  with  bared  head  and  bloodshot  eyes ! 
He  is  turning  his  ashen  face  to  the  wall  and  beating  the 
stones  with  clenched  fists.  Listen  to  that  fat  tanner  curs- 
ing the  Councillors  of  the  Realm  and  the  miserable  war! 
Feel  the  blood  in  those  fresh  cheeks  burning  with  hatred 


MARIE  GRUBBE  31 

of  the  enemy  who  brings  the  horrors  of  war,  horrors  that 
youth  has  already  lived  through  in  imagination!  How  they 
roar  with  rage  at  their  own  fancied  impotence,  and  God 
in  heaven,  what  prayers!  What  senseless  prayers! 

Vehicles  are  stopping  in  the  middle  of  the  street.  Ser- 
vants are  setting  down  their  burdens  in  sheds  and  door- 
ways. Here  and  there,  people  come  out  of  the  houses 
dressed  in  their  best  attire,  flushed  with  exertion,  look 
about  in  surprise,  then  glance  down  at  their  clothes,  and 
dart  into  the  crowd  as  though  eager  to  divert  attention 
from  their  own  finery.  What  have  they  in  mind?  And 
where  do  all  these  rough,  drunken  men  come  from?  They 
crowd;  they  reel  and  shriek;  they  quarrel  and  tumble; 
they  sit  on  doorsteps  and  are  sick;  they  laugh  wildly,  run 
after  the  women,  and  try  to  fight  the  men. 

It  was  the  first  terror,  the  terror  of  instinct.  By  noon 
it  was  over.  Men  had  been  called  to  the  ramparts,  had  la- 
bored with  holiday  strength,  and  had  seen  moats  deepen  and 
barricades  rise  under  their  spades.  Soldiers  were  passing. 
Artisans,  students,  and  noblemen's  servants  were  standing 
at  watch,  armed  with  all  kinds  of  curious  weapons.  Cannon 
had  been  mounted.  The  King  had  ridden  past,  and  it  was 
announced  that  he  would  stay.  Life  began  to  look  reason- 
able, and  people  braced  themselves  for  what  was  coming. 

In  the  afternoon  of  the  following  day,  the  suburb  out- 
side of  West  Gate  was  set  on  fire,  and  the  smoke,  drifting 
over  the  city,  brought  out  the  crowds  again.  At  dusk,  when 
the  flames  reddened  the  weatherbeaten  walls  of  Vor  Frue 
Church  tower  and  played  on  the  golden  balls  topping  the 
spire  of  St.  Peter's,  the  news  that  the  enemy  was  coming 
down  Valby  Hill  stole  in  like  a  timid  sigh.  Through  ave- 
nues and  alleys  sounded  a  frightened  "  The  Swedes !  The 


32  MARIE  GRUBBE 

Swedes ! "  The  call  came  in  the  piercing  voices  of  boys  run- 
ning through  the  streets.  People  rushed  to  the  doors,  booths 
were  closed,  and  the  iron-mongers  hastily  gathered  in  their 
wares.  The  good  folk  seemed  to  expect  a  huge  army  of  the 
enemy  to  pour  in  upon  them  that  very  moment. 

The  slopes  of  the  ramparts  and  the  adjoining  streets 
were  black  with  people  looking  at  the  fire.  Other  crowds 
gathered  farther  away  from  the  centre  of  interest,  at  the 
Secret  Passage  and  the  Fountain.  Many  matters  were  dis- 
cussed, the  burning  question  being:  Would  the  Swedes 
attack  that  night  or  wait  till  morning? 

Gert  Pyper,  the  dyer  from  the  Fountain,  thought  the 
Swedes  would  be  upon  them  as  soon  as  they  had  rallied 
after  the  march.  Why  should  they  wait? 

The  Icelandic  trader,  Erik  Lauritzen  of  Dyers'  Row, 
thought  it  might  be  a  risky  matter  to  enter  a  strange  city 
in  the  dead  of  night,  when  you  couldn't  know  what  was 
land  and  what  was  water. 

"Water!"  said  Gert  Dyer.  "Would  to  God  we  knew 
as  much  about  our  own  affairs  as  the  Swede  knows!  Don't 
trust  to  that!  His  spies  are  where  you  'd  least  think.  'T  is 
well  enough  known  to  Burgomaster  and  Council,  for  the 
aldermen  have  been  round  since  early  morning  hunting 
spies  in  every  nook  and  corner.  Fool  him  who  can!  No, 
the  Swede's  cunning — especially  in  such  business.  'Tis 
a  natural  gift.  I  found  that  out  myself — 't  is  some  half- 
score  years  since,  but  I  've  never  forgotten  that  mum- 
mery. You  see,  indigo  she  makes  black,  and  she  makes  light 
blue,  and  she  makes  medium  blue,  all  according  to  the 
mordant.  Scalding  and  making  the  dye-vats  ready  —  any 
'prentice  can  do  that,  if  he  's  handy,  but  the  mordant — 
there 's  the  rub  I  That 's  an  art !  Use  too  much,  and  you 


MARIE  GRUBBE  33 

burn  your  cloth  or  yarn  so  it  rots.  Use  too  little,  and  the 
color  will  ne-ever  be  fast  —  no,  not  if  it  's  dyed  with  the 
most  pre-cious  logwood.  Therefore  the  mordant  is  a  closed 
geheimnis  which  a  man  does  not  give  away  except  it  be  to 
his  son,  but  to  the  journeymen  —  never!  No  —  " 
"Ay,  Master  Gert,"  said  the  trader,  "ay,  ay!" 
"As  I  was  saying,"  Gert  went  on,  "  about  half  a  score 
of  years  ago  I  had  a  'prentice  whose  mother  was  a  Swede. 
He  'd  set  his  mind  on  finding  out  what  mordant  I  used  for 
cinnamon  brown,  but  as  I  always  mixed  it  behind  closed 
doors, 't  was  not  so  easy  to  smoke  it.  So  what  does  he  do, 
the  rascal?  There  's  so  much  vermin  here  round  the  Foun- 
tain, it  eats  our  wool  and  our  linen,  and  for  that  reason 
we  always  hang  up  the  stuff  people  give  us  to  dye  in  canvas 
sacks  under  the  loft-beams.  So  what  does  he  do,  the  devil's 
gesindchen^hnt  gets  him  one  of  the 'prentices  to  hang  him  up 
in  a  sack.  And  I  came  in  and  weighed  and  mixed  and  made 
ready  and  was  half  done,  when  it  happened  so  curiously 
that  the  cramp  got  in  one  of  his  legs  up  there,  and  he  began 
to  kick  and  scream  for  me  to  help  him  down.  Did  I  help 
him?  Death  and  fire!  But  't  was  a  scurvy  trick  he  did  me, 
yes,  yes,  yes!  And  so  they  are,  the  Swedes;  you  can  never 
trust  'em  over  a  doorstep." 

"  Faith,  they  're  ugly  folk,  the  Swedes,"  spoke  Erik  Lau- 
ritzen. "They've  nothing  to  set  their  teeth  in  at  home, 
so  when  they  come  to  foreign  parts  they  can  never  get  their 
bellyful.  They  're  like  poor-house  children  ;  they  eat  for  to- 
day's hunger  and  for  to-morrow's  and  yesterday's  all  in 
one.  Thieves  and  cut-purses  they  are,  too — worse  than 
crows  and  corpse-plunderers — and  so  murderous.  It 's  not 
for  nothing  people  say:  Quick  with  the  knife  like  Lasse 
Swede!" 


34  MARIE  GRUBBE 

*' And  so  lewd,"  added  the  dyer.  "  It  never  fails,  if  you 
see  the  hangman's  man  whipping  a  woman  from  town,  and 
you  ask  who  's  the  hussy,  but  they  tell  you  she  's  a  Swedish 
trull." 

"Ay,  the  blood  of  man  is  various,  and  the  blood  of 
beasts,  too.  The  Swede  is  to  other  people  what  the  baboon 
is  among  the  dumb  brutes.  There  's  such  an  unseemly  pas- 
sion and  raging  heat  in  the  humors  of  his  body  that  the 
natural  intelligence  which  God  in  His  mercy  hath  given  all 
human  creatures  cannot  hinder  his  evil  lusts  and  sinful 
desires." 

The  dyer  nodded  several  times  in  affirmation  of  the  the- 
ories advanced  by  the  trader.  "  Right  you  are,  Erik  Laurit- 
zen, right  you  are.  The  Swede  is  of  a  strange  and  peculiar 
nature,  different  from  other  people.  I  can  always  smell, 
when  an  outlandish  man  comes  into  my  booth,  whether 
he  's  a  Swede  or  from  some  other  country.  There  's  such 
a  rank  odor  about  the  Swedes — like  goats  or  fish-lye.  I  've 
often  turned  it  over  in  my  mind,  and  I  make  no  doubt  't  is 
as  you  say,  't  is  the  fumes  of  his  lustful  and  bestial  humors. 
Ay,  so  it  is." 

"Sure,  it's  no  witchcraft  if  Swedes  and  Turks  smell 
different  from  Christians!"  spoke  up  an  old  woman  who 
stood  near  them. 

"You're  drivelling,  Mette  Mustard,"  interrupted  the 
dyer.  "  Don't  you  know  that  Swedes  are  Christian  folks  ? " 

"Call  'em  Christian,  if  you  like,  Gert  Dyer,  but  Finns 
and  heathens  and  troll-men  have  never  been  Christians  by 
my  prayer-book,  and  it 's  true  as  gold  what  happened  in 
the  time  of  King  Christian,  God  rest  his  soul!  when  the 
Swedes  were  in  Jutland.  There  was  a  whole  regiment  of 
*em  marching  one  night  at  new  moon,  and  at  the  stroke 


MARIE  GRUBBE  35 

o'  midnight  they  ran  one  from  the  other  and  howled  like 
a  pack  of  werewolves  or  some  such  devilry,  and  they 
scoured  like  mad  round  in  the  woods  and  fens  and  brought 
ill  luck  to  men  and  beasts." 

"But  they  go  to  church  on  Sunday  and  have  both  pastor 
and  clerk  just  like  us." 

"  Ay,  let  a  fool  believe  that !  They  go  to  church,  the 
filthy  gang,  like  the  witches  fly  to  vespers,  when  the  Devil 
has  St.  John's  mass  on  Hekkenfell.  No,  they  're  bewitched, 
an'  nothing  bites  on  'em,  be  it  powder  or  bullets.  Half  of 
'em  can  cast  the  evil  eye,  too,  else  why  d'  ye  think  the  small- 
pox is  always  so  bad  wherever  those  hell-hounds  've  set 
their  cursed  feet?  Answer  me  that,  Gert  Dyer, answer  me 
that,  if  ye  can." 

The  dyer  was  just  about  to  reply,  when  Erik  Laurit- 
zen, who  for  some  time  had  been  looking  about  uneasily, 
spoke  to  him:  "Hush,  hush,  Gert  Pyper!  Who  's  the  man 
talking  like  a  sermon  yonder  with  the  people  standing 
thick  around  him?" 

They  hurried  to  join  the  crowd,  while  Gert  Dyer  ex- 
plained that  it  must  be  a  certain  Jesper  Kiim,  who  had 
preached  in  the  Church  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  but  whose  doc- 
trine, so  Gert  had  been  told  by  learned  men,  was  hardly 
pure  enough  to  promise  much  for  his  eternal  welfare  or 
clerical  preferment. 

The  speaker  was  a  small  man  of  about  thirty  with  some- 
thing of  the  mastiff  about  him.  He  had  long,  smooth  black 
hair,  a  thick  little  nose  on  a  broad  face,  lively  brown  eyes, 
and  red  lips.  He  was  standing  on  a  doorstep,  gesticulat- 
ing forcefully  and  speaking  with  quick  energy  though  in 
a  somewhat  thick  and  lisping  voice. 

*'The  twenty-sixth  chapter  of  the  Gospel  according  to 


36  MARIE  GRUBBE 

St.  Matthew,"  he  said,  "  from  the  fifty-first  to  the  fifty- 
fourth  verse,  reads  as  follows:  *  And,  behold,  one  of  them 
which  were  with  Jesus  stretched  out  his  hand,  and  drew 
his  sword,  and  struck  a  servant  of  the  high  priest's,  and 
smote  off  his  ear.  Then  said  Jesus  unto  him,  Put  up  again 
thy  sword  into  his  place :  for  all  they  that  take  the  sword 
shall  perish  with  the  sword.  Thinkest  thou  that  I  cannot 
now  pray  to  my  Father,  and  he  shall  presently  give  me 
more  than  twelve  legions  of  angels?  But  how  then  shall 
the  scriptures  be  fulfilled,  that  thus  it  must  be?' 

"Ay,  my  beloved  friends,  thus  it  must  be.  The  poor 
walls  and  feeble  garrison  of  this  city  are  at  this  moment 
encompassed  by  a  strong  host  of  armed  warriors,  and  their 
king  and  commander  has  ordered  them,  by  fire  and  sword, 
by  attack  and  siege,  to  subdue  this  city  and  make  us  all  his 
servants. 

"And  those  who  are  in  the  city  and  see  their  peace 
threatened  and  their  ruin  contrary  to  all  feelings  of  hu- 
manity determined  upon,  they  arm  themselves,  they  bring 
catapults  and  other  harmful  implements  of  war  to  the  ram- 
parts, and  they  say  to  one  another:  Should  not  we  with 
flaming  fire  and  shining  sword  fall  upon  the  destroyers  of 
peace  who  would  lay  us  waste?  Why  has  God  in  heaven 
awakened  valor  and  fearlessness  in  the  heart  of  man  if 
not  for  the  purpose  of  resisting  such  an  enemy  ?  And,  like 
Peter  the  Apostle,  they  would  draw  their  glaive  and  smite 
off  the  ear  of  Malchus.  But  Jesus  says :  '  Put  up  again  thy 
sword  into  his  place:  for  all  they  that  take  the  sword  shall 
perish  with  the  sword.'  'T  is  true,  this  may  seem  like  a 
strange  speech  to  the  unreason  of  the  wrathful  and  like 
foolishness  to  the;  unseeing  blindness  of  the  spiteful.  But 
the  Word  is  not  like  a  tinkle  of  cymbals,  for  the  ear  only. 


MARIE  GRUBBE  37 

No,  like  the  hull  of  a  ship,  which  is  loaded  with  many  use- 
ful things,  so  the  Word  of  God  is  loaded  with  reason  and 
understanding.  Let  us  therefore  examine  the  Word  and 
find,  one  by  one,  the  points  of  true  interpretation.  Where- 
fore should  the  sword  remain  in  his  place  and  he  who 
takes  the  sword  perish  with  the  sword  ?  This  is  for  us  to 
consider  under  three  heads : 

"  Firstly,  man  is  a  wisely  and  beyond  all  measure  glori- 
ously fashioned  microcosm,  or  as  it  may  be  interpreted, 
a  small  earth,  a  world  of  good  and  evil.  For  does  not  the 
Apostle  James  say  that  the  tongue  alone  is  a  world  of 
iniquity  among  our  members?  How  much  more  then  the 
whole  body  —  the  lustful  eyes,  the  hastening  feet,  the  cov- 
etous hands,  the  insatiable  belly,  but  even  so  the  prayerful 
knees,  and  the  ears  quick  to  hear!  And  if  the  body  is  a 
world,  how  much  more,  then,  our  precious  and  immortal 
soul!  Ay,  it  is  a  garden  full  of  sweet  and  bitter  herbs,  full 
of  evil  lusts  like  ravening  beasts  and  virtues  like  white 
lambs.  And  is  he  who  lays  waste  such  a  world  to  be  re- 
garded as  better  than  an  incendiary,  a  brawler,  or  a  field- 
robber?  And  ye  know  what  punishment  is  meted  out  to 
such  as  these." 

Darkness  had  fallen,  and  the  crowd  around  the  preacher 
appeared  only  as  a  large,  dark,  slowly  shifting  and  growing 
mass. 

"Secondly,  man  is  a  microtheos,  that  is  a  mirror  and 
image  of  the  Almighty  God.  Is  not  he  who  lays  hands  on 
the  image  of  God  to  be  regarded  as  worse  than  he  who 
merely  steals  the  holy  vessels  or  vestments  of  the  church  or 
who  profanes  the  sanctuary?  And  ye  know  what  punish- 
ment is  meted  out  to  such  a  one. 

"Thirdly  and  lastly,  it  is  the  first  duty  of  man  to  do 


38  MARIE  GRUBBE 

battle  for  the  Lord,  without  ceasing,  clothed  in  the  shining 
mail  of  a  pure  life  and  girded  about  with  the  flaming  sword 
of  truth.  Armed  thus,  it  behooves  him  to  fight  as  a  warrior 
before  the  Lord,  rending  the  throat  of  hell  and  trampling 
upon  the  belly  of  Satan.  Therefore  the  sword  of  the  body 
must  remain  in  its  place,  for  verily  we  have  enough  to 
strive  with  that  of  the  spirit ! " 

Meanwhile  stragglers  came  from  both  ends  of  the  street, 
stopped,  and  took  their  place  in  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd. 
Many  were  carrying  lanterns,  and  finally  the  dark  mass 
was  encircled  with  an  undulating  line  of  twinkling  lights 
that  flickered  and  shifted  with  the  movements  of  the 
people.  Now  and  then  a  lantern  would  be  lifted  and  its 
rays  would  move  searchingly  over  whitewashed  walls  and 
black  window-panes  till  they  rested  on  the  earnest  face  of 
the  preacher. 

"  But  how  is  this  ?  you  would  say  in  your  hearts :  Should 
we  deliver  ourselves  bound  hand  and  foot  into  the  power 
of  the  oppressor,  into  a  bitter  condition  of  thralldom  and 
degradation  ?  Oh,  my  well-beloved,  say  not  so !  For  then 
you  will  be  counted  among  those  who  doubt  that  Jesus 
could  pray  his  Father  and  He  should  send  twelve  legions 
of  angels.  Oh,  do  not  fall  into  despair!  Do  not  murmur  in 
your  hearts  against  the  counsel  of  the  Lord,  and  make  not 
your  liver  black  against  His  will!  For  he  whom  the  Lord 
would  destroy  is  struck  down,  and  he  whom  the  Lord 
would  raise  abides  in  safety.  He  has  many  ways  by  which 
He  can  guide  us  out  of  the  wilderness  of  our  peril.  Has 
He  not  power  to  turn  the  heart  of  our  enemy,  and  did  He 
not  suffer  the  angel  of  death  to  go  through  the  camp  of 
Sennacherib?  And  have  you  forgotten  the  engulfing  waters 
of  the  Red  Sea  and  the  sudden  destruction  of  Pharaoh?" 


MARIE  GRUBBE  39 

At  this  point  Jesper  Kiim  was  interrupted. 

The  crowd  had  listened  quietly  except  for  a  subdued 
angry  murmur  from  the  outskirts,  but  suddenly  Mette's 
voice  pierced  through:  "Faugh, you  hell-hound  !  Hold  your 
tongue,  you  black  dog!  Don't  listen  to  himl  It's  Swede 
money  speaks  out  of  his  mouth!" 

An  instant  of  silence, then  bedlam  broke  loose!  Oaths, 
curses,  and  foul  names  rained  over  him.  He  tried  to  speak, 
but  the  cries  grew  louder,  and  those  nearest  to  the  steps 
advanced  threateningly.  A  white-haired  little  man  right  in 
front,  who  had  wept  during  the  speech,  made  an  angry 
lunge  at  the  preacher  with  his  long,  silver-knobbed  cane. 

"Down  with  him,  down  with  him!  "the  cry  sounded. 
"  Let  him  eat  his  words !  Let  him  tell  us  what  money  he  got 
for  betraying  us!  Down  with  him!  Send  him  to  us,  we  '11 
knock  the  maggots  out  of  him!" 

"Put  him  in  the  cellar!"  cried  others.  "In  the  City 
Hall  cellar!  Hand  him  down!  hand  him  down!" 

Two  powerful  fellows  seized  him.  The  wretch  was 
clutching  the  wooden  porch  railing  with  all  his  might, 
but  they  kicked  both  railing  and  preacher  down  into  the 
street,  where  the  mob  fell  upon  him  with  kicks  and  blows 
from  clenched  fists.  The  women  were  tearing  his  hair  and 
clothes,  and  little  boys,  clinging  to  their  fathers'  hands, 
jumped  with  delight. 

"Bring  Mette!"  cried  some  one  in  the  back  of  the 
crowd.  "Make  way!  Let  Mette  try  him." 

Mette  came  forward.  "Will  you  eat  your  devil's  non- 
sense? Will  you.  Master  Rogue?" 

"Never,  never!  We  ought  to  obey  God  rather  than 
men,  as  it  is  written." 

"Ought  we?"  said  Mette,  drawing  ofF  her  wooden  shoe 


40  MARIE  GRUBBE 

and  brandishing  it  before  his  eyes.  "  But  men  have  shoes, 
and  you 're  in  the  pay  of  Satan  and  not  of  God.  I '11  give  you 
a  knock  on  the  pate!  I  '11  plaster  your  brain  on  the  wall!" 
She  struck  him  with  the  shoe. 

"Commit  no  sin,  Mette,"  groaned  the  scholar. 

"Now  may  the  Devil — "  she  shrieked. 

"Hush,  hush!"  some  one  cried.  "Have  a  care,  don't 
crowd  so!  There's  Gyldenlove,  the  lieutenant-general." 

A  tall  figure  rode  past. 

"Long  live  Gyldenlove!  The  brave  Gyldenlove!"  bel- 
lowed the  mob.  Hats  and  caps  were  swung  aloft,  and  cheer 
upon  cheer  sounded,  until  the  rider  disappeared  in  the 
direction  of  the  ramparts.  It  was  the  lieutenant-general  of 
the  militia,  colonel  of  horse  and  foot,  Ulrik  Christian  Gyl- 
denlove, the  King's  half-brother. 

The  mob  dispersed  little  by  little,  till  only  a  few  re- 
mained. 

"Say  what  you  will,  't  is  a  curious  thing,"  said  Gert  the 
dyer:  "here  we  're  ready  to  crack  the  head  of  a  man  who 
speaks  of  peace,  and  we  cry  ourselves  hoarse  for  those 
who  've  brought  this  war  upon  us." 

"I  give  you  good-night,  Gert  Py  per!  "  said  the  trader 
hastily.  " Good-night  and  God  be  with  you!"  He  hurried 
away. 

"He  's afraid  of  Mette's  shoe," murmured  the  dyer,  and 
at  last  he  too  turned  homeward. 

Jesper  Kiim  sat  on  the  steps  alone,  holding  his  aching 
head.  The  watchman  on  the  ramparts  paced  slowly  back 
and  forth,  peering  out  over  the  dark  land  where  all  was 
wrapped  in  silence,  though  thousands  of  enemies  were 
encamped  round  about. 


CHAPTER  IV 

FLAKES  of  orange-colored  light  shot  up  from  the  sea- 
gray  fog-bank  in  the  horizon,  and  lit  the  sky  over- 
head with  a  mild,  rose-golden  flame  that  widened  and  wid- 
ened, grew  fainter  and  fainter,  until  it  met  a  long,  slender 
cloud,  caught  its  waving  edge,  and  fired  it  with  a  glowing, 
burning  radiance.  Violet  and  pale  pink,  the  reflection  from 
the  sunrise  clouds  fell  over  the  beaches  of  Kallebodstrand. 
The  dew  sparkled  in  the  tall  grass  of  the  western  rampart; 
the  air  was  alive  and  quivering  with  the  twitter  of  spar- 
rows in  the  gardens  and  on  the  roofs.  Thin  strips  of  deli- 
cate mist  floated  over  the  orchards,  and  the  heavy,  fruit- 
laden  branches  of  the  trees  bent  slowly  under  the  breezes 
from  the  Sound. 

A  long-drawn,  thrice-repeated  blast  of  the  horn  was  flung 
out  from  West  Gate  and  echoed  from  the  other  corners  of 
the  city.  The  lonely  watchmen  on  the  ramparts  began  to 
pace  more  briskly  on  their  beats,  shook  their  mantles,  and 
straightened  their  caps.  The  time  of  relief  was  near. 

On  the  bastion  north  of  West  Gate,  Ulrik  Frederik 
Gyldenlove  stood  looking  at  the  gulls,  sailing  with  white 
wings  up  and  down  along  the  bright  strip  of  water  in  the 
moat.  Light  and  fleeting,  sometimes  faint  and  misty,  some- 
times colored  in  strong  pigments  or  clear  and  vivid  as  fire, 
the  memories  of  his  twenty  years  chased  one  another 
through  his  soul.  They  brought  the  fragrance  of  heavy 
roses  and  the  scent  of  fresh  green  woods,  the  huntsman's 
cry  and  the  fiddler's  play  and  the  rustling  of  stiff,  billowy 
silks.  Distant  but  sunlit,  the  life  of  his  childhood  in  the  red- 
roofed  Holstein  town  passed  before  him.  He  saw  the  tall 
form  of  his  mother,  Mistress  Margrethe  Pappen,  a  black 


42  MARIE  GRUBBE 

hymn-book  in  her  white  hands.  He  saw  the  freckled  cham- 
ber-maid with  her  thin  ankles  and  the  fencing-master  with 
his  pimpled,  purplish  face  and  his  bow-legs.  The  park  of 
Gottorp  castle  passed  in  review,  and  the  meadows  with 
fresh  hay-stacks  by  the  fjord,  and  there  stood  the  game- 
keeper's clumsy  boy  Heinrich,  who  knew  how  to  crow  like 
a  cock  and  was  marvellously  clever  at  playing  ducks  and 
drakes.  Last  came  the  church  with  its  strange  twilight,  its 
groaning  organ,  its  mysterious  iron-railed  chapel,  and  its 
emaciated  Christ  holding  a  red  banner  in  his  hand. 

Again  came  a  blast  of  the  horn  from  West  Gate,  and 
in  the  same  moment  the  sun  broke  out,  bright  and  warm, 
routing  all  mists  and  shadowy  tones. 

He  remembered  the  chase  when  he  had  shot  his  first 
deer,  and  old  von  Dettmer  had  made  a  sign  in  his  forehead 
with  the  blood  of  the  animal,  while  the  poor  hunters'  boys 
blew  their  blaring  fanfares.  Then  there  was  the  nosegay 
to  the  castellan's  Malene  and  the  serious  interview  with  his 
tutor,  then  his  first  trip  abroad.  He  remembered  his  first 
duel  in  the  fresh,  dewy  morning,  and  Annette's  cascades 
of  ringing  laughter,  and  the  ball  at  the  Elector's,  and  his 
lonely  walk  outside  of  the  city  gates  with  head  aching,  the 
first  time  he  had  been  tipsy.  The  rest  was  a  golden  mist, 
filled  with  the  tinkling  of  goblets  and  the  scent  of  wine, 
and  there  were  Lieschen  and  Lotte,  and  Martha's  white 
neck  and  Adelaide's  round  arms.  Finally  came  the  journey 
to  Copenhagen  and  the  gracious  reception  by  his  royal 
father,  the  bustling  futilities  of  court  duties  by  day  and 
the  streams  of  wine  and  frenzied  kisses  at  night,  broken  by 
the  gorgeous  revelry  of  the  chase  or  by  nightly  trysts  and 
tender  whisperings  in  the  shelter  of  Ibstrup  park  or  the 
gilded  halls  of  Hillerod  castle. 


MARIE  GRUBBE  43 

Yet  clearer  than  all  these  he  saw  the  black,  burning  eyes 
of  Sofie  Urne;  more  insistent  than  aught  else  her  voice 
sounded  in  his  spell-bound  memory  —  beautiful  and  volup- 
tuously soft,  its  low  notes  drawing  like  white  arms,  or 
rising  like  a  flitting  bird  that  soars  and  mocks  with  wan- 
ton trills,  while  it  flees.  .  .  . 

A  rustling  among  the  bushes  of  the  rampart  below 
waked  him  from  his  dreams. 

"Who  goes  there!"  he  cried. 

"None  but  Daniel,  Lord  Gyldenlove,  Daniel  Knopf," 
was  the  answer,  as  a  little  crippled  man  came  out  from  the 
bushes,  bowing. 

"Ha!  Hop-o'-my-Thumb ?  A  thousand  plagues,  what 
are  you  doing  here?" 

The  man  stood  looking  down  at  himself  sadly. 

"Daniel,  Daniel!"  said  Ulrik  Frederik,  smiling.  "You 
didn't  come  unscathed  from  the  'fiery  furnace'  last  night. 
The  German  brewer  must  have  made  too  hot  a  fire  foryou." 

The  cripple  began  to  scramble  up  the  edge  of  the  ram- 
part. Daniel  Knopf,  because  of  his  stature  called  Hop-o'- 
my-Thumb,  was  a  wealthy  merchant  of  some  and  twenty 
years,  known  for  his  fortune  as  well  as  for  his  sharp  tongue 
and  his  skill  in  fencing.  He  was  boon  companion  with 
the  younger  nobility,  or  at  least  with  a  certain  group  of  gal- 
lants, le  cercle  des  mourants^  consisting  chiefly  of  younger 
men  about  the  court.  Ulrik  Frederik  was  the  life  and  soul 
of  this  crowd,  which,  though  convivial  rather  than  intel- 
lectual, and  notorious  rather  than  beloved,  was  in  fact  ad- 
mired and  envied  for  its  very  peccadillos. 

Half  tutor  and  half  mountebank,  Daniel  moved  among 
these  men.  He  did  not  walk  beside  them  on  the  public 
streets,  or  in  houses  of  quality,  but  in  the  fencing-school. 


44  MARIE  GRUBBE 

the  wine-cellar,  and  the  tavern  he  was  indispensable.  No 
one  else  could  discourse  so  scientifically  on  bowling  and 
dog-training  or  talk  with  such  unction  of  feints  and  parry- 
ing. No  one  knew  wine  as  he  did.  He  had  worked  out  pro- 
found theories  about  dicing  and  love-making,  and  could 
speak  learnedly  and  at  length  on  the  folly  of  crossing  the 
domestic  stud  with  the  Salzburger  horses.  To  crown  all, 
he  knew  anecdotes  about  everybody,  and — most  impres- 
sive of  all  to  the  young  men — he  had  decided  opinions 
about  everything. 

Moreover,  he  was  always  ready  to  humor  and  serve 
them,  never  forgot  the  line  that  divided  him  from  the  no- 
bility, and  was  decidedly  funny  when,  in  a  fit  of  drunken 
frolic,  they  would  dress  him  up  in  some  whimsical  guise. 
He  let  himself  be  kicked  about  and  bullied  without  resent- 
ing it,  and  would  often  good-naturedly  throw  himself  into 
the  breach  to  stop  a  conversation  that  threatened  the  peace 
of  the  company. 

Thus  he  gained  admittance  to  circles  that  were  to  him 
as  the  very  breath  of  life.  To  him,  the  citizen  and  cripple, 
the  nobles  seemed  like  demigods.  Their  cant  alone  was 
human  speech.  Their  existence  swam  in  a  shimmer  of  light 
and  a  sea  of  fragrance,  while  common  folk  dragged  out 
their  lives  in  drab-colored  twilight  and  stuffy  air.  He  cursed 
his  citizen  birth  as  a  far  greater  calamity  than  his  lame- 
ness, and  grieved  over  it,  in  solitude,  with  a  bitterness  and 
passion  that  bordered  on  insanity. 

"  How  now,  Daniel,"  said  Ulrik  Frederik,  when  the  little 
man  reached  him.  "'Twas  surely  no  light  mist  that  clouded 
your  eyes  last  night,  since  you  've  run  aground  here  on 
the  rampart,  or  was  the  clary  at  flood  tide,  since  I  find  you 
high  and  dry  like  Noah's  Ark  on  Mount  Ararat.?" 


MARIE  GRUBBE  45 

"Prince  of  the  Canaries,  you  rave  if  you  suppose  I  was 
in  your  company  last  night!" 

"A  thousand  devils,  what's  the  matter  then?"  cried 
Ulrik  Frederik  impatiently. 

"  Lord  Gyldenlove,"  said  Daniel,  looking  up  at  him  with 
tears  in  his  eyes,  "I  'm  an  unhappy  wretch." 

"  You  're  a  dog  of  a  huckster !  Is  it  a  herring-boat  you  're 
afraid  the  Swede  will  catch  ?  Or  are  you  groaning  because 
trade  has  come  to  a  standstill,  or  do  you  think  the  saffron 
will  lose  its  strength  and  the  mildew  fall  on  your  pepper  and 
paradise  grain  ?  You  've  a  ha'penny  soul !  As  if  good  citizens 
had  naught  else  to  think  about  than  their  own  trumpery 
going  to  the  devil, — now  that  we  may  look  for  the  fall  of 
both  King  and  realm!" 

"Lord  Gyldenlove — " 

"Oh,  go  to  the  devil  with  your  whining!" 

"Not  so.  Lord  Gyldenlove,"  said  Daniel  solemnly, 
stepping  back  a  pace.  "  For  I  don't  fret  about  the  stoppage 
of  trade,  nor  the  loss  of  money  and  what  money  can  buy. 
I  care  not  a  doit  nor  a  damn  for  herring  and  saffron,  but  to 
be  turned  away  by  officers  and  men  like  one  sick  with  the 
leprosy  or  convicted  of  crime,  that 's  a  sinful  wrong  against 
me,  Lord  Gyldenlove.  That 's  why  I  've  been  lying  in  the 
grass  all  night  like  a  scabby  dog  that 's  been  turned  out, 
that's  why  I've  been  writhing  like  a  miserable  crawling 
beast  and  have  cried  to  God  in  heaven,  asking  Him  why 
I  alone  should  be  utterly  cast  away,  why  my  arm  alone 
should  be  too  withered  and  weak  to  wield  a  sword,  though 
they're  arming  lackeys  and  'prentice  boys — " 

"  But  who  the  shining  Satan  has  turned  you  away?" 

"  Faith,  Lord  Gyldenlove,  I  ran  to  the  ramparts  like  the 
others,  but  when  I  came  to  one  party  they  told  me  they 


46  MARIE  GRUBBE 

had  room  for  no  more,  and  they  were  only  poor  citizens 
anyway  and  not  fit  to  be  with  the  gentry  and  persons  of 
quality.  Some  parties  said  they  would  have  no  crooked 
billets,  for  cripples  drew  the  bullets  and  brought  ill  luck, 
and  none  would  hazard  life  and  limb  unduly  by  having 
amongst  them  one  whom  the  Lord  had  marked.  Then  I 
begged  Major-General  Ahlefeldt  that  he  would  order  me  to 
a  position, but  he  shook  his  head  and  laughed:  things  hadn't 
come  to  such  a  pass  yet  that  they  had  to  stuff  the  ranks 
with  stunted  stumps  who  'd  give  more  trouble  than  aid." 

"  But  why  did  n't  you  go  to  the  officers  whom  you 
know  ? " 

"I  did  so.  Lord  Gyldenlove.  I  thought  at  once  of  the 
cercle  and  spoke  to  one  or  two  of  the  mourants — King 
Petticoat  and  the  Gilded  Knight." 

"And  did  they  give  you  no  help?" 

"Ay,  Lord  Gyldenlove,  they  helped  me — Lord  Gyl- 
denlove, they  helped  me,  may  God  find  them  for  it! 
*  Daniel,'  they  said,  '  Daniel,  go  home  and  pick  the  mag- 
gots out  of  your  damson  prunes !'  They  had  believed  I  had 
too  much  tact  to  come  here  with  my  buffoonery.  'T  was 
all  very  well  if  they  thought  me  fit  to  wear  cap  and  bells  at 
a  merry  bout,  but  when  they  were  on  duty  I  was  to  keep 
out  of  their  sight.  Now,  was  that  well  spoken.  Lord  Gyl- 
denlove? No,  't  was  a  sin,  a  sin !  Even  if  they  'd  made  free 
with  me  in  the  wine-cellars,  they  said,  I  need  n't  think 
I  was  one  of  them,  or  that  I  could  be  with  them  when 
they  were  at  their  post.  I  was  too  presumptuous  for  them. 
Lord  Gyldenlove !  I  'd  best  not  force  myself  into  their 
company,  for  they  needed  no  merry-andrew  here.  That 's 
what  they  told  me.  Lord  Gyldenlove!  And  yet  I  asked  but 
to  risk  my  life  side  by  side  with  the  other  citizens." 


MARIE  GRUBBE  47 

"Oh,  ay,"  said  Ulrik  Frederik,  yawning, "I  can  well 
understand  that  it  vexes  you  to  have  no  part  in  it  all.  You 
might  find  it  irksome  to  sweat  over  your  desk  while  the 
fate  of  the  realm  is  decided  here  on  the  ramparts.  Look 
you,  you  shall  be  in  it!  For — "  He  broke  off  and  looked 
at  Daniel  with  suspicion.  "There  's  no  foul  play,  sirrah?" 

The  little  man  stamped  the  ground  in  his  rage  and 
gritted  his  teeth,  his  face  pale  as  a  whitewashed  wall. 

"Come,  come,"  Ulrik  Frederik  went  on,  "I  trust  you, 
but  you  can  scarce  expect  me  to  put  faith  in  your  word  as 
if  't  were  that  of  a  gentleman.  And  remember,  't  was  your 
own  that  scorned  you  first.  Hush!" 

From  a  bastion  at  East  Gate  boomed  a  shot,  the  first 
that  had  been  fired  in  this  war.  Ulrik  Frederik  drew  him- 
self up,  while  the  blood  rushed  to  his  face.  He  looked  after 
the  white  smoke  with  eager,  fascinated  eyes,  and  when 
he  spoke  there  was  a  strange  tremor  in  his  voice. 

"Daniel,"  he  said,  "toward  noon  you  can  report  to  me, 
and  think  no  more  of  what  I  said." 

Daniel  looked  admiringly  after  him,  then  sighed  deeply, 
sat  down  in  the  grass,  and  wept  as  an  unhappy  child  weeps. 

In  the  afternoon  of  the  same  day,  a  fitful  wind  blew 
through  the  streets  of  the  city,  whirling  up  clouds  of  dust, 
whittlings,  and  bits  of  straw,  and  carrying  them  hither  and 
thither.  It  tore  the  tiles  from  the  roofs,  drove  the  smoke 
down  the  chimneys, and  wrought  sad  havoc  with  the  trades- 
men's signs.  The  long,  dull-blue  pennants  of  the  dyers  were 
flung  out  on  the  breeze  and  fell  down  again  in  spirals  that 
tightened  around  their  quivering  staffs.  The  turners'  spin- 
ning-wheels rocked  and  swayed;  hairy  tails  flapped  over 
the  doors  of  the  furriers,  and  the  resplendent  glass  suns 


4«  MARIE  GRUBBE 

of  the  glaziers  swung  in  a  restless  glitter  that  vied  with  the 
polished  basins  of  the  barber-surgeons.  Doors  and  shutters 
were  slamming  in  the  back-yards.  The  chickens  hid  their 
heads  under  barrels  and  sheds,  and  even  the  pigs  grew 
uneasy  in  their  pens,  when  the  wind  howled  through  sunlit 
cracks  and  gaping  joints. 

The  storm  brought  an  oppressive  heat.  Within  the 
houses  the  people  were  gasping  for  breath,  and  only  the  flies 
were  buzzing  about  cheerfully  in  the  sultry  atmosphere. 
The  streets  were  unendurable,  the  porches  were  draughty, 
and  hence  people  who  possessed  gardens  preferred  to  seek 
shelter  there. 

In  the  large  enclosure  behind  Christoffer  Urne's  house 
in  Vingaardsstræde,  a  young  girl  sat  with  her  sewing  under 
a  Norway  maple.  Her  tall,  slender  figure  was  almost  frail, 
yet  her  breast  was  deep  and  full.  Luxuriant  waves  of  black 
hair  and  almost  startlingly  large  dark  eyes  accented  the 
pallor  of  her  skin.  The  nose  was  sharp,  but  finely  cut, 
the  mouth  wide  though  not  full,  and  with  a  morbid  sweet- 
ness in  its  smile.  The  lips  were  scarlet,  the  chin  somewhat 
pointed,  but  firm  and  well  rounded.  Her  dress  was  slov- 
enly: an  old  black  velvet  robe  embroidered  in  gold  that 
had  become  tarnished,  a  new  green  felt  hat  from  which 
fell  a  snowy  plume,  and  leather  shoes  that  were  worn  to 
redness  on  the  pointed  toes.  There  was  lint  in  her  hair,  and 
neither  her  collar  nor  her  long,  white  hands  were  immacu- 
lately clean. 

The  girl  was  Christoffer  Urne's  niece,  Sofie.  Her  father, 
Jorgen  Urne  of  Alslev,  Councillor  of  the  Realm,  Lord 
High  Constable,  and  Knight  of  the  Elephant,  had  died 
when  she  was  yet  a  child,  and  a  few  years  ago  her  mother, 
Mistress  Margrethe  Marsvin,  had  followed  him.  The  el- 


MARIE  GRUBBE  49 

derly  uncle,  with  whom  she  lived,  was  a  widower,  and  she 
was  therefore,  at  least  nominally,  the  mistress  of  his  house- 
hold. 

She  hummed  a  song  as  she  worked,  and  kept  time  by 
swinging  one  foot  on  the  point  of  her  toe. 

The  leafy  crowns  over  her  head  rustled  and  swayed  in 
the  boisterous  wind  with  a  noise  like  the  murmur  of  many 
waters.  The  tall  hollyhocks,  swinging  their  flower-topped 
stems  back  and  forth  in  unsteady  circles,  seemed  seized 
with  a  sudden  tempestuous  madness,  while  the  raspberry 
bushes,  timidly  ducking  their  heads,  turned  the  pale  inner 
side  of  their  leaves  to  the  light  and  changed  color  at  every 
breath.  Dry  leaves  sailed  down  through  the  air,  the  grass 
lay  flat  on  the  ground,  and  the  white  bloom  of  the  spirea 
rose  and  fell  froth-like  upon  the  light-green,  shifting  waves 
of  the  foliage. 

There  was  a  moment  of  stillness.  Everything  seemed 
to  straighten  and  hang  breathlessly  poised,  still  quivering 
in  suspense,  but  the  next  instant  the  wind  came  shrieking 
again  and  caught  the  garden  in  a  wild  wave  of  rustling  and 
glittering  and  mad  rocking  and  endless  shifting  as  before. 

"In  a  boat  sat  Phyllis  fair; 
Corydon  beheld  her  there. 
Seized  his  flute,  and  loudly  blew  it. 
Many  a  day  did  Phyllis  rue  it; 
For  the  oars  dropped  from  her  hands, 
And  aground  upon  the  sands. 
And  aground — " 

Ulrik  Frederik  was  approaching  from  the  other  end  of  the 
garden.  Sofie  looked  up  for  a  moment  in  surprise,  then  bent 
her  head  over  her  work  and  went  on  humming.  He  strolled 


so  MARIE  GRUBBE 

slowly  up  the  walk,  sometimes  stopping  to  look  at  a  flower, 
as  though  he  had  not  noticed  that  there  was  any  one  else  in 
the  garden.  Presently  he  turned  down  a  side-path,  paused 
a  moment  behind  a  large  white  syringa  to  smooth  his  uni- 
form and  pull  down  his  belt,  took  off  his  hat  and  ran  his 
iingers  through  his  hair,  then  walked  on.  The  path  made 
a  turn  and  led  straight  to  Sofie's  seat. 

"Ah,  Mistress  Sofie!  Good-day!"  he  exclaimed  as 
though  in  surprise. 

"Good-day!"  she  replied  with  calm  friendliness.  She 
carefully  disposed  of  her  needle,  smoothed  her  embroidery 
with  her  hands,  lookedup  with  a  smile, and  nodded."  Wel- 
come, Lord  Gyldenlove ! " 

"  I  call  this  blind  luck,"  he  said,  bowing.  "  I  expected  to 
find  none  here  but  your  uncle,  madam." 

Sofie  threw  him  a  quick  glance  and  smiled.  "He's  not 
here,"  she  said,  shaking  her  head. 

"I  see,"  said  Ulrik  Frederik,  looking  down. 

There  was  a  moment's  pause. Then  Sofie  spoke:  "  How 
sultry  it  is  to-day!" 

"Ay,  we  may  get  a  thunderstorm,  if  the  wind  goes 
down." 

"It  may  be,"  said  Sofie,  looking  thoughtfully  toward 
the  house. 

"Did  you  hear  the  shot  this  morning?"  asked  Ulrik 
Frederik,  drawing  himself  up  as  though  to  imply  that  he 
was  about  to  leave, 

"Ay,  and  we  may  look  for  heart-rending  times  this 
summer.  One  may  well-nigh  turn  light-headed  with  the 
thought  of  the  danger  to  life  and  goods,  and  for  me  with 
so  many  kinsmen  and  good  friends  in  this  miserable  affair, 
who  are  like  to  lose  both  life  and  limb  and  all  they  possess, 


MARIE  GRUBBE  51 

there 's  reason  enough  for  falling  into  strange  and  gloomy 
thoughts." 

"Nay, sweet  Mistress  Sofie!  By  the  IivingGod,you  must 
not  shed  tears!?  You  paint  all  in  too  dark  colors — 

Tousiours  Mars  ne  met  pas  au  jour 
Des  objects  de  sang  et  de  larmes, 
Mais"  — 

and  he  seized  her  hand  and  lifted  it  to  his  lips — 

"...  tousiours  I'Empire  d'amour 
Est  plein  de  troubles  et  d'alarmes." 

Sofie  looked  at  him  innocently.  How  lovely  she  was!  The 
intense,  irresistible  night  of  her  eyes,  where  day  welled  out 
in  myriad  light-points  like  a  black  diamond  flashing  in  the 
sun,  the  poignantly  beautiful  arch  of  her  lips,  the  proud  lily 
paleness  of  her  cheeks  melting  slowly  into  a  rose-golden 
flush  like  a  white  cloud  kindled  by  the  morning  glow,  the 
delicate  temples,  blue-veined  like  flower-petals,  shaded  by 
the  mysterious  darkness  of  her  hair  .  .  . 

Her  hand  trembled  in  his,  cold  as  marble.  Gently  she 
drew  it  away,  and  her  eyelids  dropped.  The  embroidery 
slipped  from  her  lap.  Ulrik  Frederik  stooped  to  pick  it  up, 
bent  one  knee  to  the  ground,  and  remained  kneeling  before 
her. 

"Mistress  Sofie!"  he  said. 

She  laid  her  hand  over  his  mouth  and  looked  at  him  with 
gentle  seriousness,  almost  with  pain. 

"Dear  Ulrik  Frederik,"  she  begged,  "do  not  take  it 
ill  that  I  beseech  you  not  to  be  led  by  a  momentary  senti- 
ment to  attempt  a  change  in  the  pleasant  relations  that  have 
hitherto  existed  between  us.  It  serves  no  purpose  but  to 


52  MARIE  GRUBBE 

bring  trouble  and  vexation  to  us  both.  Rise  from  this  foolish 
position  and  take  a  seat  in  mannerly  fashion  here  on  this 
bench  so  that  we  may  converse  in  all  calmness." 

"No,  I  want  the  book  of  my  fate  to  be  sealed  in  this 
hour,"  said  Ulrik  Frederik  without  rising. "  You  little  know 
the  great  and  burning  passion  I  feel  for  you,  if  you  imagine 
I  can  be  content  to  be  naught  but  your  good  friend.  For 
the  bloody  sweat  of  Christ,  put  not  your  faith  in  anything 
so  utterly  impossible !  My  love  is  no  smouldering  spark  that 
will  flame  up  or  be  extinguished  according  as  you  blow  hot 
or  cold  on  it.  Par  dieu!  'Tis  a  raging  and  devouring  fire, but 
it's  for  you  to  say  whether  it  is  to  run  out  and  be  lost  in  a 
thousand  flickering  flames  and  will-o'-the-wisps,  or  burn 
forever,warm  and  steady,high  and  shining  toward  heaven." 

"  But,  dear  Ulrik  Frederik,  have  pity  on  me !  Don't  draw 
me  into  a  temptation  that  I  have  no  strength  to  withstand! 
You  must  believe  that  you  are  dear  to  my  heart  and  most 
precious,  but  for  that  very  reason  I  would  to  the  uttermost 
guard  myself  against  bringing  you  into  a  false  and  fool- 
ish position  that  you  cannot  maintain  with  honor.  You  are 
nearly  six  years  younger  than  I,  and  that  which  is  now 
pleasing  to  you  in  my  person,  age  may  easily  mar  or  dis- 
tort to  ugliness.  You  smile,  but  suppose  that  when  you  are 
thirty  you  find  yourself  saddled  with  an  old  wrinkled  hag 
of  a  wife,  who  has  brought  you  but  little  fortune,  and  not 
otherwise  aided  in  your  preferment!  Would  you  not  then 
wish  that  at  twenty  you  had  married  a  young  royal  lady, 
your  equal  in  age  and  birth,  who  could  have  advanced  you 
better  than  a  common  gentlewoman  ?  Dear  Ulrik  Frederik, 
go  speak  to  your  noble  kinsmen,  they  will  tell  you  the  same. 
But  what  they  cannot  tell  you  is  this:  if  you  brought  to 
your  home  such  a  gentlewoman,  older  than  yourself,  she 


MARIE  GRUBBE  53 

would  strangle  you  with  her  jealousy.  She  would  suspect 
your  every  look,  nay  the  innermost  thoughts  of  your  heart. 
She  would  know  how  much  you  had  given  up  for  her  sake, 
and  therefore  she  would  strive  the  more  to  have  her  love 
be  all  in  all  to  you.  Trust  me,  she  would  encompass  you 
with  her  idolatrous  love  as  with  a  cage  of  iron,  and  if  she 
perceived  that  you  longed  to  quit  it  for  a  single  instant,  she 
would  grieve  day  and  night  and  embitter  your  life  with  her 
despondent  sorrow." 

She  rose  and  held  out  her  hand. "  Farewell,  Ulrik  Fred- 
erik! Our  parting  is  bitter  as  death,  but  after  many  years, 
when  I  am  a  faded  old  maid,  or  the  middle-aged  wife  of  an 
aged  man,  you  will  know  that  Sofie  Urne  was  right.  May 
God  the  Father  keep  thee !  Do  you  remember  the  Spanish 
romance  book  where  it  tells  of  a  certain  vine  of  India 
which  winds  itself  about  a  tree  for  support,  and  goes  on 
encircling  it,  long  after  the  tree  is  dead  and  withered,  until 
at  last  it  holds  the  tree  that  else  would  fall  ?  Trust  me,  Ulrik 
Frederik,  in  the  same  manner  my  soul  will  be  sustained 
and  held  up  by  your  love,  long  after  your  sentiment  shall 
be  withered  and  vanished." 

She  looked  straight  into  his  eyes  and  turned  to  go,  but 
he  held  her  hand  fast. 

"  Would  you  make  me  raving  mad  ?  Then  hear  me !  Now 
I  know  that  thou  lovest  me,  no  power  on  earth  can  part 
us!  Does  nothing  tell  thee  that 't  is  folly  to  speak  of  what 
thou  wouldst  or  what  I  would? — when  my  blood  is  drunk 
with  thee  and  I  am  bereft  of  all  power  over  myself!  I  am 
possessed  with  thee,  and  if  thou  turnest  away  thy  heart  from 
me  in  this  very  hour,  thou  shouldst  yet  be  mine,  in  spite 
of  thee,  in  spite  of  me !  I  love  thee  with  a  love  like  hatred 
— I  think  nothing  of  thy  happiness.  Thy  weal  or  woe  is 


54  MARIE  GRUBBE 

nothing  to  me  —  only  that  I  be  in  thy  joy,  I  be  in  thy  sor- 
row, that  I  —  " 

He  caught  her  to  him  violently  and  pressed  her  against 
his  breast. 

Slowly  she  lifted  her  face  and  looked  long  at  him  with 
eyes  full  of  tears.  Then  she  smiled.  "  Have  it  as  thou  wilt, 
Ulrik  Frederik,"  and  she  kissed  him  passionately. 

Three  weeks  later  their  betrothal  was  celebrated  with 
much  pomp.  The  King  had  readily  given  his  consent,  feel- 
ing that  it  was  time  to  make  an  end  of  Ulrik  Frederik's 
rather  too  convivial  bachelorhood. 


CHAPTER  V 

AFTER  the  main  sallies  against  the  enemy  on  the  sec- 
.  ond  of  September  and  the  twentieth  of  October,  the 
town  rang  with  the  fame  of  Ulrik  Christian  Gyldenlove. 
Colonel  Satan,  the  people  called  him.  His  name  was  on  every 
lip.  Every  child  in  Copenhagen  knew  his  sorrel.  Bellarina, 
with  the  white  socks,  and  when  he  rode  past — a  slim, 
tall  figure  in  the  wide-skirted  blue  uniform  of  the  guard  with 
its  enormous  white  collar  and  cufFs,  red  scarf,  and  broad 
sword-belt — the  maidens  of  the  city  peeped  admiringly 
after  him,  proud  when  their  pretty  faces  won  them  a  bow 
or  a  bold  glance  from  the  audacious  soldier.  Even  the  sober 
fathers  of  families  and  their  matrons  in  beruffled  caps,  who 
well  knew  how  naughty  he  was  and  had  heard  the  tales  of 
all  his  peccadillos,  would  nod  to  each  other  with  pleasure 
in  meeting  him,  and  would  fall  to  discussing  the  difficult 
question  of  what  would  have  happened  to  the  city  if  it  had 
not  been  for  Gyldenlove. 

The  soldiers  and  men  on  the  ramparts  idolized  him,  and 
no  wonder,  for  he  had  the  same  power  of  winning  the  com- 
mon people  that  distinguished  his  father.  King  Christian  the 
Fourth.  Nor  was  this  the  only  point  of  resemblance.  He  had 
inherited  his  father's  hot-headednessand  intemperance, but 
also  much  of  his  ability,  his  gift  of  thinking  quickly  and 
taking  in  a  situation  at  a  glance.  He  was  extremely  blunt. 
Several  years  at  European  courts  had  not  made  him  a  cour- 
tier, noi"  even  passably  well  mannered.  In  daily  intercourse, 
he  was  taciturn  to  the  point  of  rudeness,  and  in  the  service, 
he  never  opened  his  mouth  without  cursing  and  swearing 
like  a  common  sailor. 

With  all  this,  he  was  a  genuine  soldier.  In  spite  of  his 


56  MARIE  GRUBBE 

youth  —  for  he  was  but  eight-and-twenty  —  he  conducted 
the  defence  of  the  city,  and  led  the  dangerous  but  impor- 
tant salHes,  with  such  masterful  insight  and  such  mature 
perfection  of  plan  that  the  cause  could  hardly  have  been  in 
better  hands  with  any  one  else  among  the  men  who  sur- 
rounded Frederik  the  Third. 

No  wonder,  therefore,  that  his  name  outshone  all  others, 
and  that  the  poetasters,  in  their  versified  accounts  of  the 
fighting,  addressed  him  as  "thou  vict'ry-crowned  Gylden- 
lov', thou  Denmark's  saviour  brave!"  or  greeted  him: 
"Hail,  hail,  thou  Northern  Mars,  thou  Danish  David 
bold!"  and  wished  that  his  life  might  be  as  a  cornucopia, 
yea,  even  as  a  horn  of  plenty,  full  and  running  over  with 
praise  and  glory,  with  health,  fortune,  and  happiness.  No 
wonder  that  many  a  quiet  family  vespers  ended  with  the 
prayer  that  God  would  preserve  Mr.  Ulrik  Christian,  and 
some  pious  souls  added  a  petition  that  his  foot  might  be  led 
from  the  slippery  highways  of  sin,  and  his  heart  be  turned 
from  all  that  was  evil,  to  seek  the  shining  diadem  of  virtue 
and  truth,  and  that  he,  who  had  in  such  full  measure  won 
the  honor  of  this  world,  might  also  participate  in  the  only 
true  and  everlasting  glory. 

Marie  Grubbe's  thoughts  were  much  engrossed  by  this 
kinsman  of  her  aunt.  As  it  happened,  she  had  never  met 
him  either  at  Mistress  Rigitze's  or  in  society,  and  all  she 
had  seen  of  him  was  a  glimpse  in  the  dusk  when  Lucie  had 
pointed  him  out  in  the  street. 

All  were  speaking  of  him.  Nearly  every  day  some  fresh 
story  of  his  valor  was  noised  abroad.  She  had  heard  and 
read  that  he  was  a  hero,  and  the  murmur  of  enthusiasm  that 
went  through  the  crowds  in  the  streets,  as  he  rode  past,  had 
given  her  an  unforgettable  thrill. 


MARIE  GRUBBE  57 

The  hero-name  lifted  him  high  above  the  ranks  of  or- 
dinary human  beings.  She  had  never  supposed  that  a  hero 
could  be  like  other  people.  King  Alexander  of  Macedonia, 
Holger  the  Dane,  and  Chevalier  Bayard  were  tall,  distant, 
radiant  figures  —  ideals  rather  than  men.  Just  as  she  had 
never  believed,  in  her  childhood,  that  any  one  could  form 
letters  vi^ith  the  elegance  of  the  copy-book,  so  it  had  never 
occurred  to  her  that  one  could  become  a  hero.  Heroes  be- 
longed to  the  past.  To  think  that  one  might  meet  a  flesh- 
and-blood  hero  riding  in  Store-Færgestræde  was  beyond 
anything  she  had  dreamed  of.  Life  suddenly  took  on  a  dif- 
ferent aspect.  So  it  was  not  all  dull  routine !  The  great  and 
beautiful  and  richly  colored  world  she  had  read  of  in  her 
romances  and  ballads  was  something  she  might  actually 
see  with  her  own  eyes.  There  was  really  something  that  one 
could  long  for  with  all  one's  heart  and  soul;  all  these  words 
that  people  and  books  were  full  of  had  a  meaning.  They 
stood  for  something.  Her  confused  dreams  and  longings 
took  form,  since  she  knew  that  they  were  not  hers  alone, 
but  that  grown  people  believed  in  such  things.  Life  was 
rich,  wonderfully  rich  and  radiant. 

It  was  nothing  but  an  intuition,  which  she  knew  to  be 
true,  but  could  not  yet  see  or  feel.  He  was  her  only  pledge 
that  it  was  soi,  the  only  thing  tangible.  Hence  her  thoughts 
and  dreams  circled  about  him  unceasingly.  She  would  often 
fly  to  the  window  at  the  sound  of  horse's  hoofs,  and,  when 
out  walking,  she  would  persuade  the  willing  Lucie  to  go 
round  by  the  castle,  but  they  never  saw  him. 

Then  came  a  day  toward  the  end  of  October,  when 
she  was  plying  her  bobbins  by  the  afternoon  light,  at  a 
window  in  the  long  drawing-room  where  the  fireplace  was. 
Mistress  Rigitze  sat  before  the  fire,  now  and  then  taking 


58  MARIE  GRUBBE 

a  pinch  of  dried  flowers  or  a  bit  of  cinnamon  bark  from 
a  box  on  her  lap  and  throwing  it  on  a  brazier  full  of  live 
coals  that  stood  near  her.  The  air  in  the  low-ceilinged  room 
was  hot  and  close  and  sweet.  But  little  light  penetrated 
between  the  full  curtains  of  motley,  dark-flowered  stuff. 
From  the  adjoining  room  came  the  whirr  of  a  spinning- 
wheel,  and  Mistress  Rigitze  was  nodding  drowsily  in  her 
cushioned  chair. 

Marie  Grubbe  felt  faint  with  the  heat.  She  tried  to  cool 
her  burning  cheeks  against  the  small,  dewy  window-pane 
and  peeped  out  into  the  street,  where  a  thin  layer  of  new- 
fallen  snow  made  the  air  dazzlingly  bright.  As  she  turned 
to  the  room  again,  it  seemed  doubly  dark  and  oppressive. 
Suddenly  Ulrik  Christian  came  in  through  the  door,  so 
quickly  that  Mistress  Rigitze  started.  He  did  not  notice 
Marie,  but  took  a  seat  before  the  fire.  After  a  few  words  of 
apology  for  his  long  absence,  he  remarked  that  he  was  tired, 
leaned  forward  in  his  chair,  his  face  resting  on  his  hand,  and 
sat  silent,  scarcely  hearing  Mistress  Rigitze's  lively  chatter. 

Marie  Grubbe  had  turned  pale  with  excitement,  when 
she  saw  him  enter.  She  closed  her  eyes  for  an  instant  with 
a  sense  of  giddiness,  then  blushed  furiously  and  could 
hardly  breathe.  The  floor  seemed  to  be  sinking  under  her, 
and  the  chairs,  tables,  and  people  in  the  room  falling  through 
space.  All  objects  appeared  strangely  definite  and  yet  flick- 
ering, for  she  could  hold  nothing  fast  with  her  eyes,  and 
moreover  everything  seemed  new  and  strange. 

So  this  was  he.  She  wished  herself  far  away  or  at  least  in 
her  own  room,  her  peaceful  little  chamber.  She  was  fright- 
ened and  could  feel  her  hands  tremble.  If  he  would  only 
not  see  her!  She  shrank  deeper  into  the  window  recess 
and  tried  to  fix  her  eyes  on  her  aunt's  guest. 


MARIE  GRUBBE  59 

Was  this  the  way  he  looked? — not  very,  very  much 
taller?  And  his  eyes  were  not  fiery  black,  they  were  blue 
— such  dear  blue  eyes,  but  sad — that  was  something  she 
could  not  have  imagined.  He  was  pale  and  looked  as  if  he 
were  sorry  about  something.  Ah,  he  smiled,  but  not  in  a 
really  happy  way.  How  white  his  teeth  were,  and  what 
a  nice  mouth  he  had,  so  small  and  finely  formed! 

As  she  looked,  he  grew  more  and  more  handsome  in  her 
eyes,  and  she  wondered  how  she  could  ever  have  fancied 
him  larger  or  in  any  way  different  from  what  he  was.  She 
forgot  her  shyness  and  thought  only  of  the  eulogies  of  him 
she  had  heard.  She  saw  him  storming  at  the  head  of  his 
troops,  amid  the  exultant  cries  of  the  people.  All  fell  back 
before  him,  as  the  waves  are  thrown  off,  when  they  rise 
frothing  around  the  broad  breast  of  a  galleon.  Cannon 
thundered,  swords  flashed,  bullets  whistled  through  dark 
clouds  of  smoke,  but  he  pressed  onward,  brave  and  erect, 
and  on  his  stirrup  Victory  hung — in  the  words  of  a  chron- 
icle she  had  read. 

Her  eyes  shone  upon  him  full  of  admiration  and  enthu- 
siasm. 

He  made  a  sudden  movement  and  met  her  gaze,  but 
turned  his  head  away,  with  difficulty  repressing  a  trium- 
phant smile.  The  next  moment  he  rose  as  though  he  had 
just  caught  sight  of  Marie  Grubbe. 

Mistress  Rigitze  said  this  was  her  little  niece,  and  Marie 
made  her  courtesy. 

Ulrik  Christian  was  astonished  and  perhaps  a  trifle  dis- 
appointed to  find  that  the  eyes  that  had  given  him  such 
a  look  were  those  of  a  child. 

'■'■Ma  chere"  he  said  with  a  touch  of  mockery,  as  he 
looked  down  at  her  lace,  "you  're  a  past  mistress  in  the  art 


6o  MARIE  GRUBBE 

of  working  quietly  and  secretly;  not  a  sound  have  I  heard 
from  your  bobbins  in  all  the  time  I've  been  here." 

"No,"  replied  Marie,  who  understood  him  perfectly; 
*'when  I  saw  you.  Lord  Gyldenlove," — she  shoved  the 
heavy  lace-maker's  cushion  along  the  window-sill, — "it 
came  to  my  mind  that  in  times  like  these  't  were  more  fit- 
ting to  think  of  lint  and  bandages  than  of  laced  caps." 

"Faith,  I  know  that  caps  are  as  becoming  in  war-times 
as  any  other  day,"  he  said,  looking  at  her. 

"But  who  would  give  them  a  thought  in  seasons  like 
the  present!" 

"Many,"  answered  Ulrik  Christian,  who  began  to  be 
amused  at  her  seriousness,  "and  I  for  one." 

"I  understand,"  said  Marie,  looking  up  at  him  gravely; 
"'t  is  but  a  child  you  are  addressing."  She  courtesied  cere- 
moniously and  reached  for  her  work. 

"Stay,  my  little  maid!" 

"I  pray  you,  let  me  no  longer  incommode  you!" 

"Hark'ee!"  He  seized  her  wrists  in  a  hard  grip  and 
drew  her  to  him  across  the  little  table.  "  By  God,  you  're 
a  thorny  person, but,"  hewhispered,"if  onehas  greeted  me 
with  a  look  such  as  yours  a  moment  ago,  I  will  not  have  her 
bid  me  so  poor  a  farewell — I  will  not  have  it!  There  — 
now  kiss  me!" 

Her  eyes  full  of  tears,  Marie  pressed  her  trembling  lips 
against  his.  He  dropped  her  hands,  and  she  sank  down  over 
the  table,  her  head  in  her  arms.  She  felt  quite  dazed.  All  that 
day  and  the  next  she  had  a  dull  sense  of  bondage,  of  being 
no  longer  free.  A  foot  seemed  to  press  on  her  neck  and 
grind  her  helplessly  in  the  dust.  Yet  there  was  no  bitter- 
ness in  her  heart,  no  defiance  in  her  thoughts,  no  desire  for 
revenge.  A  strange  peace  had  come  over  her  soul  and  had 


MARIE  GRUBBE  6i 

chased  away  the  flitting  throng  of  dreams  and  longings.  She 
could  not  define  her  feeling  for  Ulrik  Christian;  she  only 
knew  that  if  he  said  Come,  she  must  go  to  him,  and  if 
he  said  Go,  she  must  quit  him.  She  did  not  understand  it, 
but  it  was  so  and  had  always  been  so,  thus  and  not  other- 
wise. 

With  unwonted  patience  she  worked  all  day  long  at 
her  sewing  and  her  lace-making,  meanwhile  humming  all 
the  mournful  ballads  she  had  ever  known,  about  the  roses 
of  love  which  paled  and  never  bloomed  again,  about  the 
swain  who  must  leave  his  truelove  and  go  to  foreign  lands, 
and  who  never,  never  came  back  any  more,  and  about 
the  prisoner  who  sat  in  the  dark  tower  such  a  long  dreary 
time,  and  first  his  noble  falcon  died,  and  then  his  faithful 
dog  died,  and  last  his  good  steed  died,  but  his  faithless  wife 
Malvina  lived  merrily  and  well  and  grieved  not  for  him. 
These  songs  and  many  others  she  would  sing,  and  some- 
times she  would  sigh  and  seem  on  the  point  of  bursting 
into  tears,  until  Lucie  thought  her  ill  and  urged  her  to  put 
way-bread  leaves  in  her  stockings. 

When  Ulrik  Christian  came  in,  a  few  days  later,  and 
spoke  gently  and  kindly  to  her,  she  too  behaved  as  though 
nothing  had  been  between  them,  but  she  looked  with  child- 
like curiosity  at  the  large  white  hands  that  had  held  her  in 
such  a  hard  grip,  and  she  wondered  what  there  could  be  in 
his  eyes  or  his  voice  that  had  so  cowed  her.  She  glanced  at 
the  mouth,  too,  under  its  narrow,  drooping  moustache,  but 
furtively  and  with  a  secret  thrill  of  fear. 

In  the  weeks  that  followed  he  came  almost  ever)'  day, 
and  Marie's  thoughts  became  more  and  more  absorbed 
m  him.  When  he  was  not  there,  the  old  house  seemed  dull 
and  desolate,  and  she  longed  for  him  as  the  sleepless  long 


62  MARIE  GRUBBE 

for  daylight,  but  when  he  came,  her  joy  was  never  full  and 
free,  always  timid  and  doubting. 

One  night  she  dreamed  that  she  saw  him  riding  through 
the  crowded  streets  as  on  that  first  evening,  but  there  were 
no  cheers,  and  all  the  faces  seemed  cold  and  indifferent. 
The  silence  frightened  her.  She  dared  not  smile  at  him,  but 
hid  behind  the  others.  Then  he  glanced  around  with  a 
strange  questioning,  wistful  look,  and  this  look  fastened  on 
her.  She  forced  her  way  through  the  mass  of  people  and 
threw  herself  down  before  him,  while  his  horse  set  its  cold, 
iron-shod  hoof  on  her  neck. 

She  awoke  and  looked  about  her,  bewildered,  at  the  cold, 
moonlit  chamber.  Alas,  it  was  but  a  dream !  She  sighed ;  she 
did  want  so  much  to  show  him  how  she  loved  him.  Yes, 
that  was  it.  She  had  not  understood  it  before,  but  she  loved 
him.  At  the  thought,  she  seemed  to  be  lying  in  a  stream  of 
fire,  and  flames  flickered  before  her  eyes,  while  every  pulse 
in  her  heart  throbbed  and  throbbed  and  throbbed.  She  loved 
him.  How  wonderful  it  was  to  say  it  to  herself!  She  loved 
him!  How  glorious  the  words  were,  how  tremendously 
real,  and  yet  how  unreal!  Good  God,  what  was  the  use, 
even  if  she  did  love  him?  Tears  of  self-pity  came  into  her 
eyes — and  yet!  She  huddled  comfortably  under  the  soft, 
warm  coverlet  of  down, — after  all  it  was  delicious  to  lie 
quite  still  and  think  of  him  and  of  her  great,  great  love. 

When  Marie  met  Ulrik  Christian  again,  she  no  longer 
felt  timid.  Her  secret  buoyed  her  up  with  a  sense  of  her 
own  importance,  and  the  fear  of  revealing  it  gave  her  man- 
ner a  poise  that  made  her  seem  almost  a  woman.  They  were 
happy  days  that  followed,  fantastic,  wonderful  days !  Was 
it  not  joy  enough  when  Ulrik  Christian  went,  to  throw  a 
hundred  kisses  after  him,  unseen  by  him  and  all  others,  or 


MARIE  GRUBBE  63 

when  he  came,  to  fancy  how  her  beloved  would  take  her 
in  his  arms  and  call  her  by  every  sweet  name  she  could 
think  of,  how  he  would  sit  by  her  side,  while  they  looked 
long  into  each  other's  eyes, and  howshewould  run  her  hand 
through  his  soft,  wavy  brown  hair?  What  did  it  matter  that 
none  of  these  things  happened  ?  She  blushed  at  the  very 
thought  that  they  might  happen. 

They  were  fair  and  happy  days,  but  toward  the  end  of 
November  Ulrik  Christian  fell  dangerously  ill.  His  health, 
long  undermined  by  debauchery  of  every  conceivable  kind, 
had  perhaps  been  unable  to  endure  the  continued  strain 
of  night-watches  and  hard  work  in  connection  with  his 
post.  Or  possibly  fresh  dissipations  had  strung  the  bow  too 
tightly.  A  wasting  disease,  marked  by  intense  pain,  wild 
fever  dreams,  and  constant  restlessness,  attacked  him,  and 
soon  took  such  a  turn  that  none  could  doubt  the  name  of 
the  sickness  was  death. 

On  the  eleventh  of  December,  Pastor  Hans  Didrichsen 
Bartskjær,  chaplain  to  the  royal  family,  was  walking  uneas- 
ily up  and  down  over  the  fine  straw  mattings  that  covered 
the  floor  in  the  large  leather-brown  room  outside  of  Ulrik 
Christian's  sick-chamber.  He  stopped  absentmindedly  be- 
fore the  paintings  on  the  walls,  and  seemed  to  examine 
with  intense  interest  the  fat,  naked  nymphs,  outstretched 
under  the  trees,  the  bathing  Susannas,  and  the  simpering 
Judith  with  bare,  muscular  arms.  They  could  not  hold  his 
attention  long,  however,  and  he  went  to  the  window,  let- 
ting his  gaze  roam  from  the  gray-white  sky  to  the  wet, 
glistening  copper  roofs  and  the  long  mounds  of  dirty,  melt- 
ing snow  in  the  castle  park  below.  Then  he  resumed  his 
nervous  pacing,  murmuring,  and  gesticulating. 

Was  that  the  door  opening?  He  stopped  short  to  listen. 


64  MARIE  GRUBBE 

No!  He  drew  a  deep  breath  and  sank  down  into  a  chair, 
where  he  sat,  sighing  and  rubbing  the  palms  of  his  hands 
together,  until  the  door  really  opened.  A  middle-aged 
woman  wearing  a  huge  flounced  cap  of  red-dotted  stuff 
appeared  and  beckoned  cautiously  to  him.  The  pastor 
pulled  himself  together,  stuck  his  prayer-book  under  his 
arm,  smoothed  his  cassock,  and  entered  the  sick-chamber. 

The  large  oval  room  was  wainscoted  in  dark  wood  from 
floor  to  ceiling.  From  the  central  panel,  depressed  below 
the  surface  of  the  wall,  grinned  a  row  of  hideous,  white- 
toothed  heads  of  blackamoors  and  Turks,  painted  in  gaudy 
colors.  The  deep,  narrow  lattice-window  was  partially 
veiled  by  a  sash-curtain  of  thin,  blue-gray  stuff,  leaving 
the  lower  part  of  the  room  in  deep  twilight,  while  the  sun- 
beams played  freely  on  the  painted  ceiling,  where  horses, 
weapons,  and  naked  limbs  mingled  in  an  inextricable  tan- 
gle, and  on  the  canopy  of  the  four-poster  bed,  from  which 
hung  draperies  of  yellow  damask  fringed  with  silver. 

The  air  that  met  the  pastor,  as  he  entered,  was  warm, 
and  so  heavy  with  the  scent  of  salves  and  nostrums  that 
for  a  moment  he  could  hardly  breathe.  He  clutched  a  chair 
for  support,  his  head  swam,  and  everything  seemed  to  be 
whirling  around  him — the  table  covered  with  flasks  and 
phials,  the  window,  the  nurse  with  her  cap,  the  sick  man 
on  the  bed,  the  sword-rack,  and  the  door  opening  into  the 
adjoining  room  where  a  fire  was  blazing  in  the  grate. 

"The  peace  of  God  be  with  you,  my  lord!"  he  greeted 
in  a  trembling  voice  as  soon  as  he  recovered  from  his  mo- 
mentary dizziness. 

"  What  the  devil  d'  ye  want  here? "  roared  the  sick  man, 
trying  to  lift  himself  in  bed. 

"  Gemach^gnadigsterHerr^gemach!"  Shoemaker's  Anne, 


MARIE  GRUBBE  65 

the  nurse,  hushed  him,  and  coming  close  to  the  bed,  gently 
stroked  the  coverlet.  "'Tis  the  venerable  Confessionarius 
of  his  Majesty,  who  has  been  sent  hither  to  give  you  the 
sacrament," 

"Gracious  Sir,  noble  Lord  Gyldenlove!"  began  the 
pastor,  as  he  approached  the  bed.  "Though  't  is  known  to 
me  that  you  have  not  been  among  the  simple  wise  or  the 
wisely  simple  who  use  the  Word  of  the  Lord  as  their  rod 
and  staff  and  who  dwell  in  His  courts,  and  although  that 
God  whose  cannon  is  the  crashing  thunderbolt  likewise 
holds  in  His  hand  the  golden  palm  of  victory  and  the  blood- 
dripping  cypresses  of  defeat,  yet  men  may  understand, 
though  not  justify,  the  circumstance  that  you,  whose  duty 
it  has  been  to  command  and  set  a  valiant  example  to  your 
people,  may  for  a  moment  have  forgotten  that  we  are  but 
as  nothing,  as  a  reed  in  the  wind,  nay,  as  the  puny  grafted 
shoot  in  the  hands  of  the  mighty  Creator.  You  may  have 
thought  foolishly :  This  have  I  done,  this  is  a  fruit  that  I 
have  brought  to  maturity  and  perfection.  Yet  now,  beloved 
lord,  when  you  lie  here  on  your  bed  of  pain,  now  God  who 
is  the  merciful  God  of  love  hath  surely  enlightened  your 
understanding  and  turned  your  heart  to  Him  in  longing 
with  fear  and  trembling  to  confess  your  uncleansed  sins, 
that  you  may  trustfully  accept  the  grace  and  forgiveness 
which  His  loving  hands  are  holding  out  to  you.  The  sharp- 
toothed  worm  of  remorse — " 

"Cross  me  fore  and  cross  me  aft!  Penitence,  forgive- 
ness of  sins,  and  life  eternal!"  jeered  Ulrik  Christian  and 
sat  up  in  bed.  "Do  you  suppose,  you  sour-faced  baldpate, 
do  you  suppose,  because  my  bones  are  rotting  out  of  my 
body  in  stumps  and  slivers,  that  gives  me  more  stomach 
for  your  parson-palaver  ? " 


66  MARIE  GRUBBE 

"Most  gracious  lord,  you  sadly  misuse  the  privilege 
which  your  high  rank  and  yet  more  your  pitiable  condition 
give  you  to  berate  a  poor  servant  of  the  Church,  who  is  but 
doing  his  duty  in  seeking  to  turn  your  thoughts  toward 
that  which  is  assuredly  to  you  the  one  thing  needful.  Oh, 
honored  lord,  it  avails  but  little  to  kick  against  the  pricks! 
Has  not  the  wasting  disease  that  has  struck  your  body 
taught  you  that  none  can  escape  the  chastisements  of  the 
Lord  God,  and  that  the  scourgings  of  heaven  fall  alike  on 
high  and  low? " 

Ulrik  Christian  interrupted  him,  laughing:  *'Hell  con- 
sume me,  but  you  talk  like  a  witless  school-boy!  This 
sickness  that's  eating  my  marrow  I  've  rightfully  brought 
on  myself,  and  if  you  suppose  that  heaven  or  hell  sends  it, 
I  can  tell  you  that  a  man  gets  it  by  drinking  and  wenching 
and  revelling  at  night.  You  may  depend  on  't.  And  now 
take  your  scholastic  legs  out  of  this  chamber  with  all  speed, 
or  else  I  '11—" 

Another  attack  seized  him,  and  as  he  writhed  and  moaned 
with  the  intense  pain,  his  oaths  and  curses  were  so  blas- 
phemous and  so  appalling  in  their  inventiveness  that  the 
scandalized  pastor  stood  pale  and  aghast.  He  prayed  God 
for  strength  and  power  of  persuasion,  if  mayhap  he  might 
be  vouchsafed  the  privilege  of  opening  this  hardened  soul 
to  the  truth  and  glorious  consolation  of  religion.  When 
the  patient  was'  quiet  again  he  began:  "My  lord,  my  lord, 
with  tears  and  weeping  I  beg  and  beseech  you  to  cease 
from  such  abominable  cursing  and  swearing!  Remember, 
the  axe  is  laid  unto  the  root  of  the  tree,  and  it  shall  be 
hewn  down  and  cast  into  the  fire,  if  it  continues  to  be 
unfruitful  and  does  not  in  the  eleventh  hour  bring  forth 
flowers  and  good  fruit!  Cease  your  baleful  resistance,  and 


MARIE  GRUBBE  e^ 

throw  yourself  with  penitent  prayers  at  the  feet  of  our 
Saviour — " 

When  the  pastor  began  his  speech,  Ulrik  Christian  sat 
up  at  the  headboard  of  the  bed.  He  pointed  threateningly 
to  the  door  and  cried  again  and  again  :  "  Begone,  parson ! 
Begone,  march!  I  ca:i't  abide  you  any  longer!" 

"Oh,  my  dear  lord,"  continued  the  clergyman,  "if 
mayhap  you  are  hardening  yourself  because  you  misdoubt 
the  possibility  of  finding  grace,  since  the  mountain  of  your 
sins  is  overwhelming,  then  hear  with  rejoicing  that  the 
fountain  of  God's  grace  is  inexhaustible — " 

"Mad  dog  of  a  parson,  will  you  go!  "hissed  Ulrik  Chris- 
tian between  clenched  teeth;  ^'one — two!" 

"And  if  your  sins  were  red  as  blood,  ay,  as  Tyrian 
purple — " 

"  Right  about  face  !" 

"He  shall  make  them  white  as  Lebanon's — " 

"Now  by  St.  Satan  and  all  his  angels!"  roared  Ulrik 
Christian  as  he  jumped  out  of  bed,  caught  a  rapier  from 
the  sword-rack,  and  made  a  furious  lunge  after  the  pastor, 
who,  however,  escaped  into  the  adjoining  room,  slamming 
the  door  after  him.  In  his  rage,  Ulrik  Christian  flung  him- 
self at  the  door,  but  sank  exhausted  to  the  floor,  and  had  to 
be  lifted  into  bed,  though  he  still  held  the  sword. 

The  forenoon  passed  in  a  drowsy  calm.  He  suffered 
no  pain,  and  the  weakness  that  came  over  him  seemed  a 
pleasant  relief.  He  lay  staring  at  the  points  of  light  pene- 
trating the  curtain,  and  counted  the  black  rings  in  the 
iron  lattice.  A  pleased  smile  flitted  over  his  face  when  he 
thought  of  his  onslaught  on  the  pastor,  and  he  grew  irrita- 
ble only  when  Shoemaker's  Anne  would  coax  him  to  close 
his  eyes  and  try  to  sleep. 


68  MARIE  GRUBBE 

In  the  early  afternoon  a  loud  knock  at  the  door  an- 
nounced the  entrance  of  the  pastor  of  Trinity  Church,  Dr. 
Jens  Justesen.  He  was  a  tall, rather  stout  man,  with  coarse, 
strong  features,  short  black  hair,  and  large,  deep-set  eyes. 
Stepping  briskly  up  to  the  bed,  he  said  simply:  '* Good- 
day!" 

As  soon  as  Ulrik  Christian  became  aware  that  another 
clergyman  was  standing  before  him,  he  began  to  shake  with 
rage,  and  let  loose  a  broadside  of  oaths  and  railing  against 
the  pastor,  against  Shoemaker's  Anne,  who  had  not  guarded 
his  peace  better,  against  God  in  heaven  and  all  holy  things. 

"  Silence,  child  of  man  ! "  thundered  Pastor  Jens.  "Is  this 
language  meet  for  one  who  has  even  now  one  foot  in  the 
grave?  'Twere  better  you  employed  the  flickering  spark  of 
life  that  still  remains  to  you  in  making  your  peace  with  the 
Lord,  instead  of  picking  quarrels  with  men.  You  are  like 
those  criminals  and  disturbers  of  peace  who,  when  their 
judgment  is  fallen  and  they  can  no  longer  escape  the  red- 
hot  pincers  and  the  axe,  then  in  their  miserable  impotence 
curse  and  revile  the  Lord  our  God  with  filthy  and  wild 
words.  They  seek  thereby  courage  to  drag  themselves  out 
of  that  almost  brutish  despair,  that  craven  fear  and  slavish 
remorse  without  hope,  into  which  such  fellows  generally 
sink  toward  the  last,  and  which  they  fear  more  than  death 
and  the  tortures  of  death." 

Ulrik  Christian  listened  quietly,  until  he  had  managed 
to  get  his  sword  out  from  under  the  coverlet.  Then  he 
cried :  "  Guard  yourself,  priest-belly ! "  and  made  a  sudden 
lunge  after  Pastor  Jens,  who  coolly  turned  the  weapon  aside 
with  his  broad  prayer-book. 

"Leave  such  tricks  to  pages!"  he  said  contemptuously. 
"They  're  scarce  fitting  for  you  or  me.   And  now  this 


MARIE  GRUBBE  69 

woman  " —  turning  to  Shoemaker's  Anne — "  had  best  leave 
us  private." 

Anne  quitted  the  room,  and  the  pastor  drew  his  chair 
up  to  the  bed,  while  Ulrik  Christian  laid  his  sword  on  the 
coverlet. 

Pastor  Jens  spoke  fair  words  about  sin  and  the  wages 
of  sin,  about  God's  love  for  the  children  of  men,  and  about 
the  death  on  the  cross. 

Ulrik  Christian  lay  turning  his  sword  in  his  hand,  let- 
ting the  light  play  on  the  bright  steel.  He  swore,  hummed 
bits  of  ribald  songs,  and  tried  to  interrupt  with  blasphe- 
mous questions,  but  the  pastor  went  on  speaking  about  the 
seven  words  of  the  cross,  about  the  holy  sacrament  of  the 
altar,  and  the  bliss  of  heaven. 

Then  Ulrik  Christian  sat  up  in  bed  and  looked  the  pas- 
tor straight  in  the  face. 

"'Tis  naught  but  lies  and  old  wives'  tales,"  he  said. 

"  May  the  devil  take  me  where  I  stand,  if  it  isn't  true ! " 
cried  the  pastor, — "every  blessed  word!"  He  hit  the  table 
with  his  fist,  till  the  jars  and  glasses  slid  and  rattled  against 
one  another,  while  he  rose  to  his  feet  and  spoke  in  a  stern 
voice:  "'Twere  meet  that  I  should  shake  the  dust  from 
my  feet  in  righteous  anger  and  leave  you  here  alone,  a  sure 
prey  to  the  devil  and  his  realm,  whither  you  are  most  cer- 
tainly bound.  You  are  one  of  those  who  daily  nail  our  Lord 
Jesus  to  the  gibbet  of  the  cross,  and  for  all  such  the  courts 
of  hell  are  prepared.  Do  not  mock  the  terrible  name  of  hell, 
for  it  is  a  name  that  contains  a  fire  of  torment  and  the  wail- 
ing and  gnashing  of  teeth  of  the  damned !  Alas,  the  anguish 
of  hell  is  greater  than  any  human  mind  can  conceive;  for 
if  one  were  tortured  to  death  and  woke  in  hell,  he  would 
long  for  the  wheel  and  the  red-hot  pincers  as  for  Abraham's 


70  MARIE  GRUBBE 

bosom. 'T  is  true  that  sickness  and  disease  are  bitter  to  the 
flesh  of  man  when  they  pierce  like  a  draught,  inch  by  inch, 
through  every  fibre  of  the  body,  and  stretch  the  sinews  till 
they  crack,  when  they  burn  like  salted  fire  in  the  vitals, 
and  gnaw  with  dull  teeth  in  the  innermost  marrow !  But  the 
sufferings  of  hell  are  a  raging  storm  racking  every  limb  and 
joint,  a  whirlwind  of  unthinkable  woe,  an  eternal  dance 
of  anguish;  for  as  one  wave  rolls  upon  another,  and  is  fol- 
lowed by  another  and  another  in  all  eternity,  so  the  scald- 
ing pangs  and  blows  of  hell  follow  one  another  ever  and 
everlastingly,  without  end  and  without  pause." 

The  sick  man  looked  around  bewildered.  "I  won't!" 
he  said,  "I  won't!  I've  nothing  to  do  with  your  heaven  or 
hell.  I  would  die,  only  die  and  nothing  more ! " 

"You  shall  surely  die,"  said  the  pastor,  "but  at  the  end 
of  the  dark  valley  of  death  are  two  doors,  one  leading  to  the 
bliss  of  heaven  and  one  to  the  torments  of  hell.  There  is 
no  other  way,  no  other  way  at  all." 

"Yes, there  is,  pastor, there  must  be — tell  me, is  there 
not  ?  —  a  deep,  deep  grave  hard  by  for  those  who  went  their 
own  way,  a  deep  black  grave  leading  down  to  nothing — 
to  no  earthly  thing  ? " 

"  They  who  went  their  own  way  are  headed  for  the  realm 
of  the  devil.  They  are  swarming  at  the  gate  of  hell;  high 
and  low,  old  and  young,  they  push  and  scramble  to  escape 
the  yawning  abyss,  and  cry  miserably  to  that  God  whose 
path  they  would  not  follow,begging  Him  to  take  them  away. 
The  cries  of  the  pit  are  over  their  heads,  and  they  writhe  in 
fear  and  agony,  but  the  gates  of  hell  shall  close  over  them 
as  the  waters  close  over  the  drowning." 

" Is  it  the  truth  you  're  telling  me?  On  your  word  as  an 
honest  man,  is  it  anything  but  a  tale?" 


MARIE  GRUBBE  71 

"It  is." 

"But  I  won't!  I  '11  do  without  your  God!  I  don't  want 
to  go  to  heaven,  only  to  die!" 

"Then  pass  on  to  that  horrible  place  of  torment,  where 
those  who  are  damned  for  all  eternity  are  cast  about  on  the 
boiling  waves  of  an  endless  sea  of  sulphur,  where  theirlimbs 
are  racked  by  agony,  and  their  hot  mouths  gasp  for  air, 
among  the  flames  that  flicker  over  the  surface.  I  see  their 
bodies  drifting  like  white  gulls  on  the  sea,  yea,  like'a  froth- 
ing foam  in  a  storm,  and  their  shrieks  are  like  the  noise  of 
the  earth  when  the  earthquake  tears  it,  and  their  anguish  is 
without  a  name.  Oh,  would  that  my  prayers  might  save  thee 
from  it,  miserable  man !  But  grace  has  hidden  its  counte- 
nance, and  the  sun  of  mercy  is  set  forever." 

"Then  help  me,  pastor,  help  me !  "groaned  Ulrik  Chris- 
tian. "What  are  you  a  parson  for,  if  you  can't  help  me? 
Pray,  for  God's  sake,  pray!  Are  there  no  prayers  in  your 
mouth?  Or  give  me  your  wine  and  bread,  if  there  's  salva- 
tion in  'em  as  they  say !  Or  is  it  all  a  lie — a  confounded  lie  ? 
I  'II  crawl  to  the  feet  of  your  God  like  a  whipped  boy,  since 
He's  so  strong — it  is  not  fair — He's  so  mighty, and  we're 
so  helpless!  Make  Him  kind,  your  God,  make  Him  kind 
to  me!  I  bow  down  —  I  bow  down  —  I  can  do  no  more!" 

"  Pray  ! " 

"Ay,  I'll  pray,  I'll  pray  all  you  want — indeed!"  he 
knelt  in  bed  and  folded  his  hands.  "Is  that  right?*' he  asked, 
looking  toward  Pastor  Jens.  "Now,  what  shall  I  say?" 

The  pastor  made  no  answer. 

For  a  few  moments  Ulrik  Christian  knelt  thus,  his  large, 
bright,  feverish  eyes  turned  upward.  "There  are  no  words, 
pastor,"  he  whimpered. "  Lord  Jesu,  they  're  all  gone,"  and^ 
he  sank  down,  weeping. 


72  MARIE  GRUBBE 

Suddenly  he  sprang  up,  seized  his  sword,  broke  it,  and 
cried:  "Lord  Jesu  Christ,  see,  I  break  my  sword!"  and 
he  lifted  the  shining  pieces  of  the  blade.  '■'•Pardon^  Jesu, 
pardon!" 

The  pastor  then  spoke  words  of  consolation  to  him  and 
gave  him  the  sacrament  without  delay,  for  he  seemed  not 
to  have  a  long  time  left.  After  that  Pastor  Jens  called 
Shoemaker's  Anne  and  departed. 

The  disease  was  believed  to  be  contagious,  hence  none 
of  those  who  had  been  close  to  the  dying  man  attended 
him  in  his  illness, but  in  the  room  belowa  fewof  his  family 
and  friends,  the  physician  in  ordinary  to  the  King,  and 
two  or  three  gentlemen  of  the  court  were  assembled  to  re- 
ceive the  noblemen,  foreign  ministers,  officers,  courtiers, 
and  city  councilmen  who  called  to  inquire  about  him.  So 
the  peace  of  the  sick-chamber  was  not  disturbed,  and  Ulrik 
Christian  was  again  alone  with  Shoemaker's  Anne. 

Twilight  fell.  Anne  threw  more  wood  on  the  fire,  lit  two 
candles,  took  her  prayer-book,  and  settled  herself  comfort- 
ably. She  pulled  her  cap  down  to  shade  her  face  and  very 
soon  was  asleep.  A  barber-surgeon  and  a  lackey  had  been 
posted  in  the  ante-room  to  be  within  call,  but  they  were 
both  squatting  on  the  floor  near  the  window,  playing  dice 
on  the  straw  matting  to  deaden  the  sound.  They  were  so 
absorbed  in  their  game  that  they  did  not  notice  some  one 
stealing  through  the  room,  until  they  heard  the  door  of  the 
sick-chamber  close. 

"It  must  have  been  the  doctor,"  they  said,  looking  at 
each  other  in  fright. 

It  was  Marie  Grubbe.  Noiselessly  she  stole  up  to  the  bed 
and  bent  over  the  patient,  who  was  dozing  quietly.  In  the 
dim,  uncertain  light,  he  looked  very  pale  and  unlike  him- 


MARIE  GRUBBE  73 

self,  the  forehead  had  a  deathly  whiteness,  the  eyelids  were 
unnaturally  large,  and  the  thin  wax-yellow  hands  were 
groping  feebly  and  helplessly  over  the  dark  blue  bolster. 

Marie  wept.  "Art  thou  so  ill?"  she  murmured.  She 
knelt,  supporting  her  elbows  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  and 
gazed  at  his  face. 

"Ulrik  Christian,"  she  called,  and  laid  her  hand  on  his 
shoulder. 

*'Is  any  one  else  here?"  he  moaned  weakly. 

She  shook  her  head.  "Art  thou  very  ill?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  't  is  all  over  with  me." 

"  No,  no,  it  must  not  be !  Whom  have  I  if  you  go  ?  No, 
no,  how  can  I  bear  it !" 

"To  live?  —  't  is  easy  to  live,  but  I  have  had  the  bread  of 
death  and  the  wine  of  death,  I  must  die — yes, yes, — bread 
and  wine — body  and  blood — d' you  believe  they  help? 
No,  no,  in  the  name  of  Jesus  Christ,  in  the  name  of  Jesus 
Christ!  Say  a  prayer,  child,  make  it  a  strong  one!" 

Marie  folded  her  hands  and  prayed. 

"Amen,  amen!  Pray  again!  I'm  such  a  great  sinner, 
child,  it  needs  so  much!  Pray  again,  a  long  prayer  with 
many  words — many  words!  Oh,  no,  what's  that?  Why 
is  the  bed  turning?  —  Hold  fast,  hold  fast!  'Tis  turning 
— like  a  whirlwind  of  unthinkable  woe,  a  dance  of  eter- 
nal anguish,  and — ha,  ha,  ha!  Am  I  drunk  again  ?  What 
devilry  is  this — what  have  I  been  drinking?  Wine!  Ay, 
of  course,  't  was  wine  I  drank,  ha,  ha!  We  're  gaily  yet, 
we  're  gaily — Kiss  me,  my  chick! 

Herzen  und  Kiissen 
1st  Himmel  auf  Erd — 

Kiss  me  again,  sweetheart,  I  'm  so  cold,  but  you  're  round 


74  MARIE  GRUBBE 

and  warm.  Kiss  me  warm!  You're  white  and  soft,  white 
and  smooth  —  " 

He  had  thrown  his  arms  around  Marie,  and  pressed  the 
terrified  child  close  to  him.  At  that  moment,  Shoemaker's 
Anne  woke  and  saw  her  patient  sitting  up  and  fondling 
a  strange  woman.  She  lifted  her  prayer-book  threateningly 
and  cried :  "  H'raus^thou  hell-born  wench !  To  think  of  the 
shameless  thing  sitting  here  and  wantoning  with  the  poor 
dying  gentleman  before  my  very  eyes!  H'raus^  whoever 
ye  are — handmaid  of  the  wicked  one,  sent  by  the  living 
Satan!" 

"Satan!  "shrieked  Ulrik  Christian  and  flung  away  Marie 
Grubbe  in  horror. "  Get  thee  behind  me !  Go,  go ! "  he  made 
the  sign  of  the  cross  again  and  again.  "  Oh,  thou  cursed 
devil!  You  would  lead  me  to  sin  in  my  last  breath,  in  my 
last  hour,  when  one  should  be  so  careful.  Begone,  begone, 
in  the  blessed  name  of  the  Lord,  thou  demon!"  His  eyes 
wide  open,  fear  in  every  feature,  he  stood  up  in  bed  and 
pointed  to  the  door. 

Speechless  and  beside  herself  with  terror,  Marie  rushed 
out.  The  sick  man  threw  himself  down  and  prayed  and 
prayed,  while  Shoemaker's  Anne  read  slowly  and  in  a  loud 
voice  prayer  after  prayer  from  her  book  with  the  large 
print. 

A  few  hours  later  Ulrik  Christian  was  dead. 


CHAPTER  VI 

AFTER  the  attempt  to  storm  Copenhagen  in  February 
,  of  fifty-nine,  the  Swedes  retired, and  contented  them- 
selves with  keeping  the  city  invested.  The  beleaguered 
townspeople  breathed  more  freely.  The  burdens  of  war 
were  lightened,  and  they  had  time  to  rejoice  in  the  honors 
they  had  won  and  the  privileges  that  had  been  conferred 
on  them.  It  is  true,  there  were  some  who  had  found  a  zest 
in  the  stirring  scenes  of  war,  and  felt  their  spirits  flag,  as 
they  saw  dull  peace  unfold  its  tedious  routine,  but  the  great 
mass  of  people  were  glad  and  light  at  heart.  Their  happi- 
ness found  vent  in  merry  routs,  for  weddings,  christenings, 
and  betrothals,  long  postponed  while  the  enemy  was  so 
oppressively  near,  gathered  gay  crowds  in  every  court  and 
alley  of  the  city. 

Furthermore,  there  was  time  to  take  note  of  the  neigh- 
bors and  make  the  mote  in  their  eyes  into  a  beam.  There 
was  time  to  backbite,  to  envy  and  hate.  Jealousies,  whether 
of  business  or  love,  shot  a  powerful  growth  again,  and  old 
enmity  bore  fruit  in  new  rancor  and  new  vengeance.  There 
was  one  who  had  lately  augmented  the  number  of  his  ene- 
mies, until  he  had  drawn  well-nigh  the  hate  of  the  whole 
community  upon  his  head.  This  man  was  Corfitz  Ulfeldt. 
He  could  not  be  reached,  for  he  was  safe  in  the  camp  of 
the  Swedes,  but  certain  of  his  relatives  and  those  of  his 
wife,  who  were  suspected  of  a  friendly  regard  for  him,  were 
subjected  to  constant  espionage  and  annoyance,  while  the 
court  knew  them  not. 

There  were  but  few  such,  but  among  them  was  Sofie 
Urne,  Ulrik  Frederik's  betrothed.  The  Queen,  who  hated 
Ulfeldt's  wife  more  than  she  hated  Ulfeldt  himself,  had 


76  MARIE  GRUBBE 

from  the  first  been  opposed  to  Ulrik  Frederik's  alliance  with 
a  gentlewoman  so  closely  related  to  Eleonore  Christine, 
and  since  the  recent  actions  of  Ulfeldt  had  placed  him  in 
a  more  sinister  light  than  ever,  she  began  to  work  upon 
the  King  and  others,  in  order  to  have  the  engagement  an- 
nulled. 

Nor  was  it  long  before  the  King  shared  the  Queen's 
view.  Sofie  Urne,  who  was  in  fact  given  to  intrigue,  had 
been  painted  as  so  wily  and  dangerous,  and  Ulrik  Frederik 
as  so  flighty  and  easily  led,  that  the  King  clearly  saw  how 
much  trouble  might  come  of  such  an  alliance.  Yet  he  had 
given  his  consent,  and  was  too  sensitive  about  his  word 
of  honor  to  withdraw  it.  He  therefore  attempted  to  reason 
with  Ulrik  Frederik,  and  pointed  out  how  easily  his  present 
friendly  footing  at  court  might  be  disturbed  by  a  woman 
who  was  so  unacceptable  to  the  King  and  Queen,  and  justly 
so,  as  her  sympathies  were  entirely  with  the  foes  of  the 
royal  house.  Moreover,  he  said,  Ulrik  Frederik  was  stand- 
ing in  his  own  light,  since  none  could  expect  important 
posts  to  be  entrusted  to  one  who  was  constantly  under  the 
influence  of  the  enemies  of  the  court.  Finally,  he  alluded 
to  the  intriguing  character  of  Mistress  Sofie,  and  even  ex- 
pressed doubt  of  the  sincerity  of  her  regard.  True  love,  he 
said,  would  have  sacrificed  itself  rather  than  bring  woe  upon 
its  object,  would  have  hidden  its  head  in  sorrow  rather  than 
exulted  from  the  housetops.  But  Mistress  Sofie  had  shown 
no  scruples;  indeed,  she  had  used  his  youth  and  blind  in- 
fatuation to  serve  her  own  ends. 

The  King  talked  long  in  this  strain,  but  could  not  pre- 
vail upon  Ulrik  Frederik,  who  still  had  a  lively  recollection 
of  the  pleading  it  had  cost  him  to  make  Mistress  Sofie  re- 
veal her  affection.  He  left  the  King,  more  than  ever  resolved 


MARIE  GRUBBE  ^^ 

that  nothing  should  part  them.  His  courtship  of  Mistress 
Sofie  was  the  first  serious  step  he  had  ever  taken  in  his  life, 
and  it  was  a  point  of  honor  with  him  to  take  it  fully.  There 
had  always  been  somany  hands  ready  to  lead  and  direct  him, 
but  he  had  outgrown  all  that;  he  was  old  enough  to  walk 
alone,  and  he  meant  to  do  it.  What  was  the  favor  of  the 
King  and  the  court,  what  were  honor  and  glory,  compared 
to  his  love?  For  that  alone  he  would  strive  and  sacrifice;  in 
that  alone  he  would  live. 

The  King,  however,  let  it  be  known  to  Christoffer  Urne 
that  he  was  opposed  to  the  match,  and  the  house  was  closed 
to  Ulrik  Frederik,  who  henceforth  could  see  Mistress  Sofie 
only  by  stealth.  At  first  this  merely  fed  the  flame,  but  soon 
his  visits  to  his  betrothed  grew  less  frequent.  He  became 
more  clear-sighted  where  she  was  concerned,  and  there 
were  moments  when  he  doubted  her  love,  and  even  won- 
dered whether  she  had  not  led  him  on,  that  summer  day, 
while  she  seemed  to  hold  him  off. 

The  court,  which  had  hitherto  met  him  with  open  arms, 
was  cold  as  ice.  The  King,  who  had  taken  such  a  warm 
interest  in  his  future,  was  indifference  itself.  There  were  no 
longer  any  hands  stretched  out  to  help  him,  and  he  began 
to  miss  them;  for  he  was  by  no  means  man  enough  to  go 
against  the  stream.  When  it  merely  ceased  to  waft  him 
along,  he  lost  heart  instantly.  At  his  birth,  a  golden  thread 
had  been  placed  in  his  hand,  and  he  had  but  to  follow  it  up- 
ward to  happiness  and  honor.  He  had  dropped  this  thread 
to  find  his  own  way, but  he  still  saw  it  glimmering.  What  if 
he  were  to  grasp  it  again?  He  could  neither  stiffen  his  back 
to  defy  the  King  nor  give  up  Sofie.  He  had  to  visit  her  in 
secret,  and  this  was  perhaps  the  hardest  of  all  for  his  pride 
to  stomach.  Accustomed  to  move  in  pomp  and  display,  to 


78  MARIE  GRUBBE 

take  every  step  in  princely  style,  he  winced  at  crawling 
through  back  alleys.  Days  passed,  and  weeks  passed,  filled 
with  inactive  brooding  and  still-born  plans.  He  loathed  his 
own  helplessness,  and  began  to  despise  himself  for  a  lag- 
gard. Then  came  the  doubt :  perhaps  his  dawdling  had  killed 
her  love,  or  had  she  never  loved  him  ?  They  said  she  was 
clever,  and  no  doubt  she  was,  but — as  clever  as  they  said? 
Oh,  no!  What  was  love,  then,  if  she  did  not  love, and  yet 
— and  yet  .  .  . 

Behind  Christoffer  Urne's  garden  ran  a  passage  just 
wide  enough  for  a  man  to  squeeze  through.  This  was  the 
way  Ulrik  Frederik  had  to  take  when  he  visited  his  mistress, 
and  he  would  usually  have  Hop-o'-my-Thumb  mounted  on 
guard  at  the  end  of  the  passage,  lest  people  in  the  street 
should  see  him  climbing  the  board  fence. 

On  a  balmy,  moonlit  summer  night,  three  or  four  hours 
after  bedtime,  Daniel  had  wrapped  himself  in  his  cloak  and 
found  a  seat  for  himself  on  the  remains  of  a  pig's  trough, 
which  some  one  had  thrown  out  from  a  neighboring  house. 
He  was  in  a  pleasant  frame  of  mind,  slightly  drunk,  and 
chuckling  to  himself  at  his  own  merry  conceits.  Ulrik  Fred- 
erik had  already  scaled  the  fence  and  was  in  the  garden.  It 
was  fragrant  with  elder-blossoms.  Linen  laid  out  to  bleach 
made  long  white  strips  across  the  grass.  There  was  a  soft 
rustling  in  the  maples  overhead  and  the  rose-bushes  at  his 
side;  their  red  blossoms  looked  almost  white  in  the  moon- 
light. He  went  up  to  the  house,  which  stood  shining  white, 
the  windows  in  a  yellow  glitter.  How  quiet  everything 
was  —  radiant  and  calm!  Suddenly  the  glassy  whirr  of  a 
cricket  shivered  the  stillness.  The  sharp,  blue-black  shad- 
ows of  the  hollyhocks  seemed  painted  on  the  wall  behind 
them.  A  faint  mist  rose  from  the  bleach-linen.  There!  — 


MARIE  GRUBBE  79 

he  lifted  the  latch,  and  the  next  moment  he  was  in  the 
darkness  within.  Softly  he  groped  his  way  up  the  rickety 
staircase  until  he  felt  the  warm,  spice-scented  air  of  the 
attic.  The  rotten  boards  of  the  floor  creaked  under  his 
step.  The  moon  shone  through  a  small  window  overhead, 
throwing  a  square  of  light  on  the  flat  top  of  a  grain-pile. 
Scramble  over — the  dust  whirling  in  the  column  of  light! 
Now — the  gable-room  at  last!  The  door  opened  from 
within,  and  threw  a  faint  reddish  glow  that  illuminated  for 
a  second  the  pile  of  grain,  the  smoke-yellowed,  sloping 
chimney,  and  the  roof-beams.  The  next  moment  they 
were  shut  out,  and  he  stood  by  Sofie's  side  in  the  family 
clothes-closet. 

The  small,  low  room  was  almost  filled  with  large  linen- 
presses.  From  the  loft  hung  bags  full  of  down  and  feathers. 
Old  spinning-wheels  were  flung  into  the  corners,  and  the 
walls  were  festooned  with  red  onions  and  silver-mounted 
harness.  The  window  was  closed  with  heavy  wooden  shut- 
ters, but  on  a  brass-trimmed  chest  beneath  it  stood  a  small 
hand-lantern.  Sofie  opened  its  tiny  horn-pane  to  get  a 
brighter  light.  Her  loosened  hair  hung  down  over  the  fur- 
edged  broadcloth  robe  she  had  thrown  over  her  homespun 
dress.  Her  face  was  pale  and  grief-worn,  but  she  smiled 
gaily  and  poured  out  a  stream  of  chatter.  She  was  sitting  on 
a  low  stool,  her  hands  clasped  around  her  knees,  looking 
up  merrily  at  Ulrik  Frederik,  who  stood  silent  above  her, 
while  she  talked  and  talked,  lashed  on  by  the  fear  his  ill- 
humor  had  roused  in  her. 

"  How  now,  Sir  Grumpy  ? "  she  said.  "  You  've  nothing 
to  say?  In  all  the  hundred  hours  that  have  passed,  have 
you  not  thought  of  a  hundred  things  you  wanted  to  whis- 
per to  me?  Oh,  then  you  have  not  longed  as  I  have! "  She 


8o  MARIE  GRUBBE 

trimmed  the  candle  with  her  fingers,  and  threw  the  bit  of 
burning  wick  on  the  floor.  Instinctively  Ulrik  Frederik  took 
a  step  forward,  and  put  it  out  with  his  foot. 

"That's  right!"  she  went  on.  "Come  here,  and  sit  by 
my  side;  but  first  you  must  kneel  and  sigh  and  plead  with 
me  to  be  fond  again,  for  this  is  the  third  night  I  'm  watch- 
ing. Yester  eve  and  the  night  before  I  waited  in  vain,  till 
my  eyes  were  dim." She  lifted  her  hand  threateningly.  "To 
your  knees,  Sir  Faithless,  and  pray  as  if  for  your  life!" 
She  spoke  with  mock  solemnity,  then  smiled,  half  beseech- 
ing, half  impatient.  "Come  here  and  kneel,  come!" 

Ulrik  Frederik  looked  around  almost  grudgingly.  It 
seemed  too  absurd  to  fall  on  his  knees  there  in  Christoffer 
Urne's  attic.  Yet  he  knelt  down,  put  his  arm  around  her 
waist,  and  hid  his  face  in  her  lap,  though  without  speaking. 

She  too  was  silent,  oppressed  with  fear;  for  she  had  seen 
Ulrik  Frederik's  pale,  tormented  face  and  uneasy  eyes. 
Her  hand  played  carelessly  with  his  hair,but  her  heart  beat 
violently  in  apprehension  and  dread. 

They  sat  thus  for  a  long  time. 

Then  Ulrik  Frederik  started  up. 

"  No,  no  I "  he  cried.  "  This  can't  go  on !  God  our  Father 
in  heaven  is  my  witness,  that  you  're  dear  to  me  as  the  in- 
nermost blood  of  my  heart,  and  I  don't  know  how  I  'm  to 
live  without  you.  But  what  does  it  avail?  What  can  come 
of  it?  They  're  all  against  us — every  one.  Not  a  tongue 
will  speak  a  word  of  cheer,  but  all  turn  from  me.  When 
they  see  me,  't  is  as  though  a  cold  shadow  fell  over  them, 
where  before  I  brought  a  light.  I  stand  so  utterly  alone,  Sofie, 
't  is  bitter  beyond  words.  True,  I  know  you  warned  me, 
but  I  'm  eaten  up  in  this  strife.  It  sucks  my  courage  and 
my  honor,  and  though  I  'm  consumed  with  shame,  I  must 


MARIE  GRUBBE  81 

ask  you  to  set  me  free.  Dearest  girl,  release  me  from  my 
word!" 

Sofie  had  risen  and  stood  cold  and  unflinching  like  a 
statue,  eyeing  him  gravely,  as  he  spoke. 

"I  am  with  child,"  she  said  quietly  and  firmly. 

If  she  had  consented,  if  she  had  given  him  his  free- 
dom, Ulrik  Frederik  felt  that  he  would  not  have  taken  it. 
He  would  have  thrown  himself  at  her  feet.  Sure  of  her, 
he  would  have  defied  the  King  and  all.  But  she  did  not. 
She  but  pulled  his  chain  to  show  him  how  securely  he  was 
bound.  Oh,  she  was  clever  as  they  said !  His  blood  boiled, 
he  could  have  fallen  upon  her,  clutched  her  white  throat 
to  drag  the  truth  out  of  her  and  force  her  to  open  every 
petal  and  lay  bare  every  shadow  and  fold  in  the  rose  of  her 
love,  that  he  might  know  the  truth  at  last!  But  he  mas- 
tered himself  and  said  with  a  smile:  ''Yes, of  course,!  know 
— 't  was  nothing  but  a  jest,  you  understand." 

Sofie  looked  at  him  uneasily.  No,  it  had  not  been  a  jest. 
If  it  had  been,  why  did  he  not  come  close  to  her  and  kiss 
her?  Why  did  he  stand  there  in  the  shadow?  If  she  could 
only  see  his  eyes !  No,  it  was  no  jest.  He  had  asked  as  seri- 
ously as  she  had  answered.  Ah,  that  answer!  She  began 
to  see  what  she  had  lost  by  it.  If  she  had  only  said  yes,  he 
would  never  have  left  her!  "  Oh,  Ulrik  Frederik,"  she  said, 
"  I  was  but  thinking  of  our  child,  but  if  you  no  longer  love 
me,  then  go,  go  at  once  and  build  your  own  happiness !  I 
will  not  hold  you  back." 

"  Did  I  not  tell  you  that 't  was  but  a  jest  ?  How  can  you 
think  that  I  would  ask  you  to  release  me  from  my  word  and 
sneak  oflf"  in  base  shame  and  dishonor!  Whenever  I  lifted 
my  head  again,"  he  went  on, "I  must  fear  lest  the  eye  that 
had  seen  my  ignominy  should  meet  mine  and  force  it  to  the 


82  MARIE  GRUBBE 

ground."  And  he  meant  what  he  said.  If  she  had  loved  him 
as  passionately  as  he  loved  her,  then  perhaps,  but  now — 
never. 

Sofie  went  to  him  and  laid  her  head  on  his  shoulder, 
weeping. 

"Farewell,  Ulrik  Frederik,"  she  said.  "Go, go!  I  would 
not  hold  you  one  hour  after  you  longed  to  be  gone,  no,  not 
if  I  could  bind  you  with  a  hair." 

He  shook  his  head  impatiently.  "Dear  Sofie,"  he  said, 
winding  himself  out  of  her  arms,  "let  us  not  play  a  com- 
edy with  each  other.  I  owe  it  both  to  you  and  to  myself 
that  the  pastor  should  join  our  hands;  it  cannot  be  too 
soon.  Let  it  be  in  two  or  three  days — but  secretly,  for  it 
is  of  no  use  to  set  the  world  against  us  more  than  has  been 
done  already."  Sofie  dared  not  raise  any  objection.  They 
agreed  on  the  time  and  the  place,  and  parted  with  tender 
good-nights. 

When  Ulrik  Frederik  came  down  into  the  garden,  it 
was  dark,  for  the  moon  had  veiled  itself,  and  a  few  heavy 
raindrops  fell  from  the  inky  sky.  The  early  cocks  were 
crowing  in  the  mews,  but  Daniel  had  fallen  asleep  on  his 
post. 

A  week  later  his  best  parlor  was  the  scene  of  Mistress 
Sofie's  and  Ulrik  Frederik's  private  marriage  by  an  ob- 
scure clergyman.  The  secret  was  not  so  well  guarded,  how- 
ever, but  that  the  Queen  could  mention  it  to  the  King  a 
few  days  later.  The  result  was  that  in  a  month's  time  the 
contract  was  annulled  by  royal  decree,  and  Mistress  Sofie 
was  sent  to  the  cloister  for  gentlewomen  at  Itzehoe. 

Ulrik  Frederik  made  no  attempt  to  resist  this  step. 
Although  he  felt  deeply  hurt,  he  was  weary,  and  bowed 
in  dull  dejection  to  whatever  had  to  be.  He  drank  too 


MARIE  GRUBBE  83 

much  almost  every  day,  and  when  in  his  cups  would  weep 
and  plaintively  describe  to  two  or  three  boon  companions, 
who  were  his  only  constant  associates,  the  sweet,  peace- 
ful, happy  life  he  might  have  led.  He  always  ended  with 
mournful  hints  that  his  days  were  numbered,  and  that  his 
broken  heart  would  soon  be  carried  to  that  place  of  healing 
where  the  bolsters  were  of  black  earth  and  the  worms  were 
chirurgeon. 

The  King,  to  make  an  end  of  all  this,  ordered  him  to 
accompany  the  troops  which  the  Dutch  were  transferring 
to  Fyen,  and  thence  he  returned  in  November  with  the 
news  of  the  victory  at  Nyborg.  He  resumed  his  place  at 
the  court  and  in  the  favor  of  the  King,  and  seemed  to  be 
quite  his  old  self. 


CHAPTER  VII 

MARIE  Grubbe  was  now  seventeen. 
On  the  afternoon  when  she  fled  in  terror  from  the 
death-bed  of  Ulrik  Christian  Gyldenlove,  she  had  rushed 
up  to  her  own  chamber  and  paced  the  floor,  wringing  her 
hands,  and  moaning  as  with  intense  bodily  pain, until  Lucie 
had  run  to  Mistress  Rigitze  and  breathlessly  begged  her  for 
God's  sake  to  come  to  Miss  Marie,  for  she  thought  some- 
thing had  gone  to  pieces  inside  of  her.  Mistress  Rigitze 
came,  but  could  not  get  a  word  out  of  the  child.  She  had 
thrown  herself  before  a  chair  with  face  hidden  in  the  cush- 
ions, and  to  all  Mistress  Rigitze's  questions  answered  only 
that  she  wanted  to  go  home,  she  wanted  to  go  home,  she 
would  n't  stay  a  moment  longer,  and  she  had  wept  and 
sobbed,  rocking  her  head  from  side  to  side.  Mistress  Rigitze 
had  finally  given  her  a  good  beating  and  scolded  Lucie, 
saying  that  between  them  they  had  nearly  worried  the  life 
out  of  her  with  their  nonsense,  and  therewith  she  left  the 
two  to  themselves. 

Marie  took  the  beating  with  perfect  indifference.  Had 
any  one  offered  her  blows  in  the  happy  days  of  her  love, 
it  would  have  seemed  the  blackest  calamity,  the  deepest 
degradation,  but  now  it  no  longer  mattered.  In  one  short 
hour,  her  longings,  her  faith,  and  her  hopes  had  all  been 
withered,  shrivelled  up,  and  blown  away.  She  remembered 
once  at  Tjele  when  she  had  seen  the  men  stone  to  death 
a  dog  that  had  ventured  within  the  high  railing  of  the  duck- 
park.  The  wretched  animal  swam  back  and  forth,  unable 
to  get  out,  the  blood  running  from  many  wounds,  and  she 
remembered  how  she  had  prayed  to  God  at  every  stone  that 
it  might  strike  deep,  since  the  dog  was  so  miserable  that  to 


MARIE   GRUBBE  85 

spare  it  would  have  been  the  greatest  cruelty.  She  felt  like 
poor  Diana,  and  welcomed  every  sorrow,  only  wishing  that 
it  would  strike  deep,  for  she  was  so  unhappy  that  the  death- 
blow was  her  only  hope. 

Oh,  if  that  was  the  end  of  all  greatness — slavish  whim- 
pering, lecherous  raving,  and  craven  terror! — then  there 
was  no  such  thing  as  greatness.  The  hero  she  had  dreamed 
of,  he  rode  through  the  portals  of  death  with  ringing  spurs 
and  shining  mail,  with  head  bared  and  lance  at  rest,  not  with 
fear  in  witless  eyes  and  whining  prayers  on  trembling  lips. 
Then  there  was  no  shining  figure  that  she  could  dream  of 
in  worshipping  love,  no  sun  that  she  could  gaze  on  till  the 
world  swam  in  light  and  rays  and  color  before  her  blinded 
eyes.  It  was  all  dull  and  flat  and  leaden,  bottomless  trivi- 
ality, lukewarm  commonplace,  and  nothing  else. 

Such  were  her  first  thoughts.  She  seemed  to  have  been 
transported  for  a  short  time  to  a  fairy-land,  where  the  warm, 
life-pregnant  air  had  made  her  whole  being  unfold  like  an 
exotic  flower,  flashing  sunlight  from  every  petal,  breath- 
ing fragrance  in  every  vein,  blissful  in  its  own  light  and 
scent,  growing  and  growing,  leaf  upon  leaf  and  petal  upon 
petal,  in  irresistible  strength  and  fullness.  But  this  was  all 
past.  Her  life  was  barren  and  void  again ;  she  was  poor  and 
numb  with  cold.  No  doubt  the  whole  world  was  like  that, 
and  all  the  people  likewise.  And  yet  they  went  on  living 
in  their  futile  bustle.  Oh,  her  heart  was  sick  with  disgust 
at  seeing  them  flaunt  their  miserable  rags  and  proudly  listen 
for  golden  music  in  their  empty  clatter. 

Eagerly  she  reached  for  those  treasured  old  books  of 
devotion  that  had  so  often  been  proffered  her  and  as  often 
rejected.  There  was  dreary  solace  in  their  stern  words  on 
the  misery  of  the  world  and  the  vanity  of  all  earthly  things, 


86  MARIE  GRUBBE 

but  the  one  book  that  she  pored  over  and  came  back  to 
again  and  again  was  the  Revelation  of  St.  John  the  Divine. 
She  never  tired  of  contemplating  the  glories  of  the  heavenly 
Jerusalem;  she  pictured  it  to  herself  down  to  the  smallest 
detail,  walked  through  every  by-way,  peeped  in  at  every 
door.  She  was  blinded  by  the  rays  of  sardonyx  and  chryso- 
lyte,  chrysoprasus  and  jacinth;  she  rested  in  the  shadow 
of  the  gates  of  pearl  and  saw  her  own  face  mirrored  in  the 
streets  of  gold  like  transparent  glass.  Often  she  wondered 
what  she  and  Lucie  and  Aunt  Rigitze  and  all  the  other 
peopleof  Copenhagen  would  do  when  the  first  angel  poured 
out  the  vial  of  the  wrath  of  God  upon  earth,  and  the  sec- 
ond poured  out  his  vial,  and  the  third  poured  out  his — she 
never  got  any  farther,  for  she  always  had  to  begin  over 
again. 

When  she  sat  at  her  work  she  would  sing  one  long  pas- 
sion hymn  after  another,  in  a  loud,  plaintive  voice,  and  in 
her  spare  moments  she  would  recite  whole  pages  from"The 
Chain  of  Prayerful  Souls  "  or  "  A  Godly  Voice  for  Each  of 
the  Twelve  Months;"  for  these  two  she  knew  almost  by 
heart. 

Underneath  all  this  piety  there  lurked  a  veiled  ambi- 
tion. Though  she  really  felt  the  fetters  of  sin  and  longed 
for  communion  with  God,  there  mingled  in  her  religious 
exercises  a  dim  desire  for  power,  a  half-realized  hope  that 
she  might  become  one  of  the  first  in  the  kingdom  of  heaven. 
This  brooding  worked  a  transformation  in  her  whole  being. 
She  shunned  people  and  withdrew  within  herself.  Even 
her  appearance  was  changed,  the  face  pale  and  thin,  the 
eyes  burning  with  a  hard  flame — and  no  wonder;  for  the 
terrible  visions  of  the  Apocalypse  rode  life-size  through 
her  dreams  at  night,  and  all  day  long  her  thoughts  dwelt  on 


MARIE  GRUBBE  87 

what  was  dark  and  dreary  in  life.  When  Lucie  had  gone 
to  sleep  in  the  evening,  she  would  steal  out  of  bed  and  find 
a  mystic  ascetic  pleasure  in  falling  on  her  knees  and  praying, 
till  her  bones  ached  and  her  feet  were  numb  with  cold. 

Then  came  the  time  when  the  Swedes  raised  the  siege, 
and  all  Copenhagen  divided  its  time  between  filling  glasses 
as  host  and  draining  them  as  guest.  Marie's  nature,  too,  re- 
bounded from  the  strain,  and  a  new  life  began  for  her,  on 
a  certain  day  when  Mistress  Rigitze,  followed  by  a  seam- 
stress, came  up  to  her  room  and  piled  the  tables  and  chairs 
high  with  the  wealth  of  sacks,  gowns,  and  pearl-embroi- 
dered caps  that  Marie  had  inherited  from  her  mother.  It  was 
considered  time  that  she  should  wear  grown-up  clothes. 

She  was  in  raptures  at  being  the  centre  of  all  the  bustle 
that  broke  in  on  her  quiet  chamber,  all  this  ripping  and 
measuring,  cutting  and  basting.  How  perfectly  dear  that 
pounce-red  satin,  glowing  richly  where  it  fell  in  long,  heavy 
folds,  or  shining  brightly  where  it  fitted  smoothly  over  her 
form !  How  fascinating  the  eager  parley  about  whether  this 
silk  chamelot  was  too  thick  to  show  the  lines  of  her  figure 
or  that  Turkish  green  too  crude  for  her  complexion !  No 
scruples,  no  dismal  broodings  could  stand  before  this  joy- 
ous, bright  reality.  Ah,  if  she  could  but  once  sit  at  the  festive 
board  —  for  she  had  begun  to  go  to  assemblies — wearing 
this  snow-white,  crisp  ruff",  among  other  young  maidens  in 
just  as  crisp  ruffs,  all  the  past  would  become  as  strange  to 
her  as  the  dreams  of  yesternight,  and  if  she  could  but  once 
tread  the  saraband  and  pavan  in  sweeping  cloth  of  gold 
and  lace  mitts  and  broidered  linen,  those  spiritual  excesses 
would  make  her  cheeks  burn  with  shame. 

It  all  came  about :  she  was  ashamed,  and  she  did  tread 
the  saraband  and  pavan;  for  she  was  sent  twice  a  week, 


88  MARIE  GRUBBE 

with  other  young  persons  of  quality,  to  dancing-school  in 
Christen  Skeel's  great  parlor,  where  an  old  Mecklenburger 
taught  them  steps  and  figures  and  a  gracious  carriage  ac- 
cording to  the  latest  Spanish  mode.  She  learned  to  play  on 
the  lute,  and  was  perfected  in  French;  for  Mistress  Rigitze 
had  her  own  plans. 

Marie  was  happy.  As  a  young  prince  who  has  been  held 
captive  is  taken  straight  from  the  gloomy  prison  and  harsh 
jailer  to  be  lifted  to  the  throne  by  an  exultant  people,  to 
feel  the  golden  emblem  of  power  and  glory  pressed  firmly 
upon  his  curls,  and  see  all  bowing  before  him  in  smiling 
homage,  so  she  had  stepped  from  her  quiet  chamber  into 
the  world,  and  all  had  hailed  her  as  a  queen  indeed,  all  had 
bowed,  smiling,  before  the  might  of  her  beauty. 

There  is  a  flower  called  the  pearl  hyacinth;  as  that  is 
blue  so  were  her  eyes  in  color,  but  their  lustre  was  that  of 
the  falling  dewdrop,  and  they  were  deep  as  a  sapphire  rest- 
ing in  shadow.  They  could  fall  as  softly  as  sweet  music  that 
dies,  and  glance  up  exultant  as  a  fanfare.  Wistful  —  ay,  as 
the  stars  pale  at  daybreak  with  a  veiled,  tremulous  light, 
so  was  her  look  when  it  was  wistful.  It  could  rest  with  such 
smiling  intimacy  that  many  a  man  felt  it  like  a  voice  in  a 
dream,  far  away  but  insistent,  calling  his  name,  but  when 
it  darkened  with  grief  it  was  full  of  such  hopeless  woe  that 
one  could  almost  hear  the  heavy  dripping  of  blood. 

Such  was  the  impression  she  made,  and  she  knew  it, 
but  not  wholly.  Had  she  been  older  and  fully  conscious  of 
her  beauty,  it  might  have  turned  her  to  stone.  She  might 
have  come  to  look  upon  it  as  a  jewel  to  be  kept  burnished 
and  in  a  rich  setting,  that  it  might  be  the  desire  of  all;  she 
might  have  suffered  admiration  coldly  and  quietly.  Yet  it 
was  not  so.  Her  beauty  was  so  much  older  than  herself 


MARIE  GRUBBE  89 

and  she  had  so  suddenly  come  into  the  knowledge  of  its 
power,  that  she  had  not  learned  to  rest  upon  it  and  let  her- 
self be  borne  along  by  it,  serene  and  self-possessed.  Rather, 
she  made  efforts  to  please,  grew  coquettish  and  very  fond 
of  dress,  while  her  ears  drank  in  every  word  of  praise,  her 
eyes  absorbed  every  admiring  look,  and  her  heart  treasured 
it  all. 

She  was  seventeen,  and  it  was  Sunday,  the  first  Sunday 
after  peace  had  been  declared.  In  the  morning  she  had 
attended  the  thanksgiving  service,  and  in  the  afternoon 
she  was  dressing  for  a  walk  with  Mistress  Rigitze. 

The  whole  town  was  astir  with  excitement ;  for  peace 
had  openedthe  city  gates,  which  hadbeenclosed  for  twenty- 
two  long  months.  All  were  rushing  to  see  where  the 
suburb  had  stood,  where  the  enemy  had  been  encamped, 
and  where  "ours"  had  fought.  They  had  to  go  down  into 
the  trenches,  climb  the  barricades,  peep  into  the  necks 
of  the  mines,  and  pluck  at  the  gabions.  This  was  the  spot 
where  such  a  one  had  been  posted,  and  here  so-and-so  had 
fallen,  and  over  there  another  had  rushed  forward  and  been 
surrounded.  Everything  was  remarkable,  from  the  wheel- 
tracks  of  the  cannon-carriages  and  the  cinders  of  the 
watch-fires  to  the  bullet-pierced  board-fences  and  the  sun- 
bleached  skull  of  a  horse.  And  so  the  narrating  and  ex- 
plaining, the  supposing  and  debating,  went  on,  up  the 
ramparts  and  down  the  barricades. 

Gert  Pyper  was  strutting  about  with  his  whole  family. 
He  stamped  the  ground  at  least  a  hundred  times  and  gen- 
erally thought  he  noticed  a  strangely  hollow  sound,  while 
his  rotund  spouse  pulled  him  anxiously  by  the  sleeve  and 
begged  him  not  to  be  too  foolhardy,  but  Master  Gert  only 
stamped  the  harder.  The  grown-up  son  showed  his  little 


90  MARIE  GRUBBE 

betrothed  where  he  had  been  standing  on  the  night  when 
he  got  a  bullet-hole  through  his  duffel  great-coat,  and  where 
the  turner's  boy  had  had  his  head  shot  off.  The  smaller 
children  cried,  because  they  were  not  allowed  to  keep  the 
rifle-ball  they  had  found  ;  for  Erik  Lauritzen,  who  was 
also  there,  said  it  might  be  poisoned.  He  was  poking  the 
half-rotten  straw  where  the  barracks  had  stood,  for  he  re- 
membered a  story  of  a  soldier  who  had  been  hanged  out- 
side of  Magdeburg,  and  under  whose  pillow  seven  of  his 
comrades  had  found  so  much  money  that  they  had  deserted 
before  the  official  looting  of  the  city  began. 

The  green  fields  and  grayish  white  roads  were  dotted 
black  with  people  coming  and  going.  They  walked  about, 
examining  the  well-known  spots  like  a  newly  discovered 
world  or  an  island  suddenly  shot  up  from  the  bottom  of 
the  sea,  and  there  were  many  who,  when  they  saw  the 
country  stretching  out  before  them,  field  behind  field  and 
meadow  behind  meadow,  were  seized  with  wanderlust  and 
began  to  walk  on  and  on  as  though  intoxicated  with  the 
sense  of  space,  of  boundless  space. 

Toward  supper  time, however,  the  crowds  turned  home- 
ward, and  as  moved  by  one  impulse,  sought  the  North 
Quarter,  where  the  graveyard  of  St.  Peter's  Church  lay  sur- 
rounded by  spacious  gardens;  for  it  was  an  old-time  cus- 
tom to  take  the  air  under  the  green  trees,  after  vespers  on 
summer  Sundays.  While  the  enemy  was  encamped  before 
the  ramparts,  the  custom  naturally  fell  into  disuse,  and  the 
churchyard  had  been  as  empty  on  Sundays  as  on  week  days; 
but  this  day  old  habits  were  revived,  and  people  streamed 
in  through  both  entrances  from  Norregade:  nobles  and  citi- 
zens, high  and  low,  all  had  remembered  the  full-crowned 
linden  trees  of  St.  Peter's  churchyard, 


MARIE  GRUBBE  91 

On  the  grassy  mounds  and  the  broad  tombstones  sat 
merry  groups  of  townspeople,  man  and  wife,  children  and 
neighbors,  eating  their  supper,  while  in  the  outskirts  of  the 
party  stood  the  'prentice  boy  munching  the  delicious  Sun- 
day sandwich,  as  he  waited  for  the  basket.  Tiny  children 
tripped  with  hands  full  of  broken  food  for  the  beggar  young- 
sters that  hung  on  the  wall.  Lads  thirsting  for  knowledge 
spelled  their  way  through  the  lengthy  epitaphs,  while  father 
listened  full  of  admiration,  and  mother  and  the  girls  scanned 
the  dresses  of  the  passers-by:  for  by  this  time  the  gentle- 
folk were  walking  up  and  down  in  the  broad  paths.  They 
usually  came  a  little  later  than  the  others, and  either  supped 
at  home  or  in  one  of  the  eating-houses  in  the  gardens  round 
about. 

Stately  matrons  and  dainty  maids,  old  councillors  and 
young  officers, stout  noblemen  and  foreign  ministers,  passed 
in  review.  There  went  bustling,  gray-haired  Hans  Nansen, 
shortening  his  steps  to  the  pace  of  the  wealthy  Villem 
Fiuren  and  listening  to  his  piping  voice.  There  came  Cor- 
fits  Trolle  and  the  stiff  Otto  Krag.  Mistress  Ide  Daa, 
famed  for  her  lovely  eyes,  stood  talking  to  old  Axel  Urup, 
who  showed  his  huge  teeth  in  an  everlasting  smile,  while 
the  shrunken  form  of  his  lady.  Mistress  Sidsel  Grubbe, 
tripped  slowly  by  the  side  of  Sister  Rigitze  and  the  impa- 
tient Marie.  There  were  Gersdorf  and  Schack  and  Thure- 
sen  of  the  tow-colored  mane  and  Peder  Retz  with  Spanish 
dress  and  Spanish  manners. 

Ulrik  Frederik  was  among  the  rest,  walking  with  Niels 
Rosenkrands,  the  bold  young  lieutenant-colonel,  whose 
French  breeding  showed  in  his  lively  gestures.  When  they 
met  Mistress  Rigitze  and  her  companions,  Ulrik  Fred- 
erik would  have  passed  them  with  a  cold,  formal  greeting, 


92  MARIE  GRUBBE 

for  ever  since  his  separation  from  Sofie  Urne  he  had  nursed 
a  spite  against  Mistress  Rigitze,  whom  he  suspected,  as  one 
of  the  Queen's  warmest  adherents,  of  having  had  a  finger 
in  the  matter.  But  Rosenkrands  stopped,  and  Axel  Urup 
urged  them  so  cordially  to  sup  with  the  party  in  Johan 
Adolph's  garden  that  they  could  not  well  refuse. 

A  few  minutes  later  they  were  all  sitting  in  the  little 
brick  summer-house,  eating  the  simple  country  dishes  that 
the  gardener  set  before  them. 

"  Is  it  true,  I  wonder,"  asked  Mistress  Ide  Daa,"  that  the 
Swedish  officers  have  so  bewitched  the  maidens  of  Sjæl- 
land with  their  pretty  manners  that  they  have  followed 
them  in  swarms  out  of  land  and  kingdom?" 

"  Marry,  it 's  true  enough  at  least  of  that  minx,  Mistress 
Dyre,"  replied  Mistress  Sidsel  Grubbe. 

"Of  what  Dyres  is  she?"  asked  Mistress  Rigitze. 

*'The  Dyres  of  Skaaneland,  you  know,  sister,  those 
who  have  such  light  hair.  They 're  all  intermarried  with  the 
Powitzes.  The  one  who  fled  the  country  she 's  a  daughter 
of  Henning  Dyre  of  West  Neergaard,  he  who  married  Sido- 
nie,  the  eldest  of  the  Ove  Powitzes,  and  she  went  bag  and 
baggage — took  sheets,  bolsters,  plate,  and  ready  money 
from  her  father." 

"Ay,"  smiled  Axel  Urup,  "strong  love  draws  a  heavy 
load." 

"Faith,"  agreed  Oluf  Daa,  who  always  struck  out  with 
his  left  hand  when  he  talked,  "love — as  a  man  may  say 
— love  is  strong." 

"Lo-ove,"  drawled  Rosenkrands,  daintily  stroking  his 
moustache  with  the  back  of  his  little  finger,  "is  like  Her- 
cules in  female  dress,  gentle  and  charming  in  appear- 
ance and  seeming  all  weak-ness  and  mild-ness,  yet  it  has 


MARIE  GRUBBE  93 

stre-ength  and  craftiness  to  complete  all  the  twelve  labors 
of  Hercules." 

" Indeed,"  broke  in  Mistress  Ide  Daa, "that  is  plainly 
to  be  seen  from  the  love  of  Mistress  Dyre,  which  at  least 
completed  one  of  the  labors  of  Hercules,  inasmuch  as  it 
cleaned  out  chests  and  presses,  even  as  he  cleaned  the 
stable  of  Uriah — or  whatever  his  name  was — you  know." 

"I  would  rather  say"  —  Ulrik  Frederik  turned  to  Marie 
Grubbe — "that  love  is  like  falling  asleep  in  a  desert  and 
waking  in  a  balmy  pleasure-garden,  for  such  is  the  virtue 
of  love  that  it  changes  the  soul  of  man,  and  that  which  was 
barren  now  seems  a  very  wonder  of  delight.  But  what  are 
your  thoughts  about  love,  fair  Mistress  Marie?" 

"Mine?"  she  asked.  "I  think  love  is  like  a  diamond; 
for  as  a  diamond  is  beautiful  to  look  upon,  so  is  love  fair, 
but  as  the  diamond  is  poison  to  any  one  who  swallows  it, 
in  the  same  manner  love  is  a  kind  of  poison  and  produces 
a  baneful  raging  distemper  in  those  who  are  infected  by 
it — at  least  if  one  is  to  judge  by  the  strange  antics  one 
may  observe  in  amorous  persons  and  by  their  curious  con- 
versation." 

"Ay,"  whispered  Ulrik  Frederik  gallantly,  "the  candle 
may  well  talk  reason  to  the  poor  moth  that  is  crazed  by 
its  light!" 

"  Forsooth,  I  think  you  are  right,  Marie,"  began  Axel 
Urup,  pausing  to  smile  and  nod  to  her.  "Yes, yes,  we  may 
well  believe  that  love  is  but  a  poison,  else  how  can  we  ex- 
plain that  coldblooded  persons  may  be  fired  with  the  most 
burning  passion  merely  by  giving  them  miracle-philtres 
and  love-potions?" 

"  Fie!  "  cried  Mistress  Sidsel;  "  don't  speak  of  such  ter- 
rible godless  business  —  and  on  a  Sunday,  too!" 


94  MARIE  GRUBBE 

"  My  dear  Sidse,"  he  replied,  "there  's  no  sin  in  that — 
none  at  all.  Would  you  call  it  a  sin.  Colonel  Gyldenlove? 
No?  Surely  not.  Does  not  even  Holy  Writ  tell  of  witches 
and  evil  sorceries  ?  Indeed  and  indeed  it  does.  What  I  was 
about  to  say  is  that  all  our  humors  have  their  seat  in  the 
blood.  If  a  man  is  fired  with  anger,  can't  he  feel  the  blood 
rushing  up  through  his  body  and  flooding  his  eyes  and  ears? 
And  if  he  's  frightened  o'  the  sudden,  does  not  the  blood 
seem  to  sink  down  into  his  feet  and  grow  cold  all  in  a  trice  ? 
Is  it  for  nothing,  do  you  think,  that  grief  is  pale  and  joy  red 
as  a  rose?  And  as  for  love,  it  comes  only  after  the  blood 
has  ripened  in  the  summers  and  winters  of  seventeen  or 
eighteen  years ;  then  it  begins  to  ferment  like  good  grape- 
wine;  it  seethes  and  bubbles.  In  later  years  it  clears  and 
settles  as  do  other  fermenting  juices;  it  grows  less  hot  and 
fierce.  But  as  good  wine  begins  to  effervesce  again  when 
the  grape-vine  is  in  bloom,  so  the  disposition  of  man,  even 
of  the  old,  is  more  than  ordinarily  inclined  to  love  at  cer- 
tain seasons  of  the  year,  when  the  blood,  as  it  were,  re- 
members the  springtime  of  life." 

"Ay,  the  blood,"  added  Oluf  Daa, "as  a  man  may  say, 
the  blood — 't  is  a  subtle  matter  to  understand — as  a  man 
may  say." 

"Indeed,"  nodded  Mistress  Rigitze,  "everything  acts 
on  the  blood,  both  sun  and  moon  and  approaching  storm, 
that 's  as  sure  as  if  't  were  printed." 

"And  likewise  the  thoughts  of  other  people,"  said  Mis- 
tress Ide.  "I  saw  it  in  my  eldest  sister.  We  lay  in  one  bed 
together,  and  every  night,  as  soon  as  her  eyes  were  closed, 
she  would  begin  to  sigh  and  stretch  her  arms  and  legs  and 
try  to  get  out  of  bed  as  some  one  were  calling  her.  And 
't  was  but  her  betrothed,  who  was  in  Holland,  and  was  so 


MARIE  GRUBBE  95 

full  of  longing  for  her  that  he  would  do  nothing  day  and 
night  but  think  of  her,  until  she  never  knew  an  hour's 
peace, and  her  health  —  don't  you  remember,  dear  Mistress 
Sidsel,  how  weak  her  eyesight  was  all  the  time  Jorgen 
Bille  was  from  home?" 

"Do  I  remember?  Ah,  the  dear  soul!  But  she  bloomed 
again  like  a  rosebud.  Bless  me,  her  first  lying-in  — "  and 
she  continued  the  subject  in  a  whisper. 

Rosenkrands  turned  to  Axel  Urup.  "Then  you  believe," 
he  said,"  that  an  elixir  d"  am-our  is  a  fermenting  juice  poured 
into  the  blood?  That  tallies  well  with  a  tale  the  late  Mr. 
Ulrik  Christian  told  me  one  day  we  were  on  the  ramparts 
together.  'T  was  in  Antwerp  it  happened — in  the  Ho- 
tellerie  des  Trois  Brochets,  where  he  had  lodgings.  That 
morning  at  ma-ass  he  had  seen  a  fair,  fair  maid-en,  and 
she  had  looked  quite  kind-ly  at  him.  All  day  long  she  was  not 
in  his  thoughts,  but  at  night  when  he  entered  his  chamber, 
there  was  a  rose  at  the  head  of  the  bed.  He  picked  it  up 
and  smelled  it,  and  in  the  same  mo-ment  the  coun-ter-feit 
of  the  maiden  stood  before  him  as  painted  on  the  wall,  and 
he  was  seized  with  such  sudden  and  fu-rious  longing  for 
her  that  he  could  have  cried  aloud.  He  rushed  out  of  the 
house  and  into  the  street,  and  there  he  ran  up  and  down, 
wail-ing  like  one  be-witched.  Something  seemed  to  draw 
and  draw  him  and  burn  like  fire,  and  he  never  stopped  till 
day  dawned." 

So  they  talked  until  the  sun  went  down,  and  they  parted 
to  go  home  through  the  darkening  streets.  Ulrik  Frederik 
joined  but  little  in  the  general  conversation;  for  he  was 
afraid  that  if  he  said  anything  about  love,  it  might  be  taken 
for  reminiscences  of  his  relation  with  Sofie  Urne.  Nor  was 
he  in  the  mood  for  talking,  and  when  he  and  Rosenkrands 


96  MARIE  GRUBBE 

were  alone  he  made  such  brief,  absentminded  replies  that 
his  companion  soon  wearied  of  him  and  left  him  to  himself. 

Ulrik  Frederik  turned  homeward  to  his  own  apartments, 
which  this  time  were  at  Rosenborg.  His  valet  being  out, 
there  was  no  light  in  the  large  parlor,  and  he  sat  alone  there 
in  the  dark  till  almost  midnight. 

He  was  in  a  strange  mood,  divided  between  regret  and 
foreboding.  It  was  one  of  those  moods  when  the  soul  seems 
to  drift  as  in  a  light  sleep,  without  will  or  purpose,  on  a 
slowly  gliding  stream,  while  mist-like  pictures  pass  on  the 
background  of  dark  trees,  and  half-formed  thoughts  rise 
from  the  sombre  stream  like  great  dimly-lit  bubbles  that 
glide — glide  onward  and  burst.  Bits  of  the  conversation 
that  afternoon, the  motley  crowds  in  the  churchyard,  Marie 
Grubbe's  smile.  Mistress  Rigitze,  the  Queen,  the  King's 
favor,  the  King's  anger  that  other  time, — the  way  Marie 
moved  her  hands,  Sofie  Urne,  pale  and  far  away, — yet 
paler  and  yet  farther  away, — the  rose  at  the  head  of  the 
bed  and  Marie  Grubbe's  voice,  the  cadence  of  some  word, 
— he  sat  listening  and  heard  it  again  and  again  winging 
through  the  silence. 

He  rose  and  went  to  the  window,  opened  it,  and  leaned 
his  elbows  on  the  wide  casement.  How  fresh  it  all  was — so 
cool  and  quiet!  The  bittersweet  smell  of  roses  cooled  with 
dew,  the  fresh,  pungent  scent  of  new-mown  hay,  and  the 
spicy  fragrance  of  the  flowering  maple  were  wafted  in.  A 
mist-like  rain  spread  a  blue,  tremulous  dusk  over  the  garden. 
The  black  boughs  of  the  larch,  the  drooping  leafy  veil  of 
the  birch,  and  the  rounded  crowns  of  the  beech  stood  like 
shadows  breathed  on  a  background  of  gliding  mist,  while 
the  clipped  yew-trees  shot  upward  like  the  black  columns 
of  a  roofless  temple. 


MARIE  GRUBBE  97 

The  stillness  was  that  of  a  deep  grave,  save  for  the  rain- 
drops, falling  light  as  thistledown,  with  a  faint,  monoto- 
nous sound  like  a  whisper  that  dies  and  begins  again  and 
dies  there  behind  the  wet,  glistening  trunks. 

What  a  strange  whisper  it  was  when  one  listened !  How 
wistful!  —  like  the  beating  of  soft  wings  when  old  memo- 
ries flock.  Or  was  it  a  low  rustle  in  the  dry  leaves  of  lost 
illusions?  He  felt  lonely,  drearily  alone  and  forsaken. 
Among  all  the  thousands  of  hearts  that  beat  round  about 
in  the  stillness  of  the  night,  not  one  turned  in  longing  to 
him !  Over  all  the  earth  there  was  a  net  of  invisible  threads 
binding  soul  to  soul,  threads  stronger  than  life,  stronger 
than  death;  but  in  all  that  net  not  one  tendril  stretched 
out  to  him.  Homeless,  forsaken !  Forsaken  ?  Was  that  a 
sound  of  goblets  and  kisses  out  there  ?  Was  there  a  gleam 
of  white  shoulders  and  dark  eyes?  Was  that  a  laugh  ring- 
ing through  the  stillness? — What  then?  Better  the  slow- 
dripping  bitterness  of  solitude  than  that  poisonous,  sickly 
sweetness. .  .  .  Oh,  curses  on  it!  I  shake  your  dust  from  my 
thoughts,  slothful  life,  life  for  dogs,  for  blind  men,  for 
weaklings.  ...  As  a  rose !  O  God,  watch  over  her  and  keep 
her  through  the  dark  night !  Oh,  that  I  might  be  her  guard 
and  protector,  smooth  every  path,  shelter  her  against  every 
wind — so  beautiful — listening:  like  a  child — as  a  rose!  . . . 


CHAPTER  VIII 

ADMIRED  and  courted  though  she  was,  Marie  Grubbe 
^  soon  found  that,  while  she  had  escaped  from  the  nur- 
sery, she  was  not  fully  admitted  to  the  circles  of  the  grown 
up.  For  all  the  flatteries  lavished  on  them,  such  young  maid- 
ens were  kept  in  their  own  place  in  society.  They  were 
made  to  feel  it  by  a  hundred  trifles  that  in  themselves  meant 
nothing,  but  when  taken  together  meant  a  great  deal.  First 
of  all,  the  children  were  insufferably  familiar,  quite  like 
their  equals.  And  then  the  servants — there  was  a  well- 
defined  difference  in  the  manner  of  the  old  footman  when 
he  took  the  cloak  of  a  maid  or  a  matron,  and  the  faintest 
shade  in  the  obliging  smile  of  the  chambermaid  showed  her 
sense  of  whether  she  was  waiting  on  a  married  or  an  un- 
married woman.  The  free-and-easy  tone  which  the  half- 
grown  younkers  permitted  themselves  was  most  unpleas- 
ant, and  the  way  in  which  snubbings  and  icy  looks  simply 
slid  off  from  them  was  enough  to  make  one  despair. 

She  liked  best  the  society  of  the  younger  men,  for  even 
when  they  were  not  in  love  with  her,  they  would  show  her 
the  most  delicate  attention  and  say  the  prettiest  things  with 
a  courtly  deference  that  quite  raised  her  in  her  own  estima- 
tion,— though  to  be  sure  it  was  tiresome  when  she  found 
that  they  did  it  chiefly  to  keep  in  practice.  Some  of  the 
older  gentlemen  were  simply  intolerable  with  their  fulsome 
compliments  and  their  mock  gallantry,  but  the  married 
women  were  worst  of  all,  especially  the  brides.  The  en- 
couraging, though  a  bit  preoccupied  glance,  the  slight  con- 
descending nod  with  head  to  one  side,  and  the  smile — 
half  pitying,  half  jeering — with  which  they  would  listen 
to  her — it  was  insulting!  Moreover,  the  conduct  of  the 


MARIE  GRUBBE  99 

girls  themselves  was  not  of  a  kind  to  raise  their  position. 
They  would  never  stand  together,  but  if  one  could  humili- 
ate another,  she  was  only  too  glad  to  do  so.  They  had  no 
idea  of  surrounding  themselves  with  an  air  of  dignity  by 
attending  to  the  forms  of  polite  society  the  way  the  young 
married  women  did. 

Her  position  was  not  enviable,  and  when  Mistress  Ri- 
gitze  let  fall  a  few  words  to  the  effect  that  she  and  other 
members  of  the  family  had  been  considering  a  match  be- 
tween Marie  and  Ulrik  Frederik,  she  received  the  news 
with  joy.  Though  Ulrik  Frederik  had  not  taken  her  fancy 
captive,  a  marriage  with  him  opened  a  wide  vista  of  pleas- 
ant possibilities.  When  all  the  honors  and  advantages  had 
been  described  to  her — how  she  would  be  admitted  into 
the  inner  court  circle, the  splendor  in  which  she  would  live, 
the  beaten  track  to  fame  and  high  position  that  lay  before 
Ulrik  Frederik  as  the  natural  son  and  even  more  as  the 
especial  favorite  of  the  King, — while  she  made  a  mental 
note  of  how  handsome  he  was,  how  courtly,  and  how  much 
in  love, — it  seemed  that  such  happiness  was  almost  too 
great  to  be  possible,  and  her  heart  sank  at  the  thought  that, 
after  all,  it  was  nothing  but  loose  talk,  schemes,  and  hopes. 

Yet  Mistress  Rigitze  was  building  on  firm  ground,  for 
not  only  had  Ulrik  Frederik  confided  in  her  and  begged 
her  to  be  his  spokesman  with  Marie,  but  he  had  induced 
her  to  sound  the  gracious  pleasure  of  the  King  and  Queen, 
and  they  had  both  received  the  idea  very  kindly  and  had 
given  their  consent,  although  the  King  had  felt  some  hesi- 
tation to  begin  with.  The  match  had,  in  fact,  been  settled 
long  since  by  the  Queen  and  her  trusted  friend  and  chief 
gentlewoman.  Mistress  Rigitze,  but  the  King  was  not 
moved  only  by  the  persuasions  of  his  consort.  He  knew 


loo  MARIE  GRUBBE 

that  Marie  Grubbe  would  bring  her  husband  a  consider- 
able fortune,  and  although  Ulrik  Frederik  held  Vording- 
borg in  fief,  his  love  of  pomp  and  luxury  made  constant 
demands  upon  the  King,  who  was  always  hard  pressed 
for  money.  Upon  her  marriage  Marie  would  come  into 
possession  of  her  inheritance  from  her  dead  mother,  Mis- 
tress Marie  Juul,  while  her  father,  Erik  Grubbe,  was  at 
that  time  owner  of  the  manors  of  Tjele,  Vinge,  Gammel- 
gaard, Bigum,  Trinderup,  and  Norbæk,  besides  various 
scattered  holdings.  He  was  known  as  a  shrewd  manager 
who  wasted  nothing,  and  would  no  doubt  leave  his  daugh- 
ter a  large  fortune.  So  all  was  well.  Ulrik  Frederik  could 
go  courting  without  more  ado,  and  a  week  after  midsum- 
mer their  betrothal  was  solemnized. 

Ulrik  Frederik  was  very  much  in  love,  but  not  with  the 
stormy  infatuation  he  had  felt  when  Sofie  Urne  ruled  his 
heart.  It  was  a  pensive,  amorous,  almost  wistful  senti- 
ment, rather  than  a  fresh,  ruddy  passion.  Marie  had  told 
him  the  story  of  her  dreary  childhood,  and  he  liked  to  pic- 
ture to  himself  her  sufferings  with  something  of  the  volup- 
tuous pity  that  thrills  a  young  monk  when  he  fancies  the 
beautiful  white  body  of  the  female  martyr  bleeding  on  the 
sharp  spikes  of  the  torture-wheel.  Sometimes  he  would  be 
troubled  with  dark  forebodings  that  an  early  death  might 
tear  her  from  his  arms.  Then  he  would  vow  to  himself 
with  great  oaths  that  he  would  bear  her  in  his  hands  and 
keep  every  poisonous  breath  from  her,  that  he  would  lead 
the  light  of  every  gold-shining  mood  into  her  young  heart 
and  never,  never  grieve  her. 

Yet  there  were  other  times  when  he  exulted  at  the 
thought  that  all  this  rich  beauty,  this  strange,  wonderful 
soul  were  given  into  his  power  as  the  soul  of  a  dead  man 


MARIE  GRUBBE     ^  loi 

into  the  hands  of  God,  to  grind  in  the  dust  if  he  liked,  to 
raise  up  when  he  pleased,  to  crush  down,  to  bend. 

It  was  partly  Marie's  own  fault  that  such  thoughts  could 
rise  in  him,  for  her  love,  if  she  did  love,  was  of  a  strangely 
proud,  almost  insolent  nature.  It  would  be  but  a  halting 
image  to  say  that  her  love  for  the  late  Ulrik  Christian  had 
been  like  a  lake  whipped  and  tumbled  by  a  storm,  while 
her  love  for  Ulrik  Frederik  was  the  same  water  in  the  even- 
ing, becalmed,  cold,  and  glassy,  stirred  but  by  the  break- 
ing of  frothy  bubbles  among  the  dark  reeds  of  the  shore. 
Yet  the  simile  would  have  some  truth,  for  not  only  was  she 
cold  and  calm  toward  her  lover,  but  the  bright  myriad 
dreams  of  life  that  thronged  in  the  wake  of  her  first  passion 
had  paled  and  dissolved  in  the  drowsy  calm  of  her  present 
feeling. 

She  loved  Ulrik  Frederik  after  a  fashion,  but  might  it 
not  be  chiefly  as  the  magic  wand  opening  the  portals  to  the 
magnificent  pageant  of  life,  and  might  it  not  be  the  pageant 
that  she  really  loved  ?  Sometimes  it  would  seem  otherwise. 
When  she  sat  on  his  knee  in  the  twilight  and  sang  little 
airs  about  Daphne  and  Amaryllis  to  her  own  accompani- 
ment, the  song  would  die  away,  and  while  her  fingers  played 
with  the  strings  of  the  cithern,  she  would  whisper  in  his 
waitingearwords  sosweet  and  warm  that  no  true  loveowns 
them  sweeter,  and  there  were  tender  tears  in  her  eyes  that 
could  be  only  the  dew  of  love's  timid  unrest.  And  yet — 
might  it  not  be  that  her  longing  was  conjuring  up  a  mere 
mood,  rooted  in  the  memories  of  her  past  feeling,  sheltered 
by  the  brooding  darkness,  fed  by  hot  blood  and  soft  music, 
— a  mood  that  deceived  herself  and  made  him  happy?  Or 
was  it  nothing  but  maidenly  shyness  that  made  her  chary 
of  endearments  by  the  light  of  day,  and  was  it  nothing  but 


102  MARIE  GRUBBE 

girlish  fear  of  showing  a  girl's  weakness  that  made  her  eyes 
mock  and. her  lips  jeer  many  a  time  when  he  asked  for  a 
kiss  or,  vowing  love,  would  draw  from  her  the  words  all 
lovers  long  to  hear?  Why  was  it,  then,  that  when  she  was 
alone,  and  her  imagination  had  wearied  of  picturing  for  the 
thousandth  time  the  glories  of  the  future,  she  would  often 
sit  gazing  straight  before  her  hopelessly,  and  feel  unutter- 
ably lonely  and  forsaken  ? 

In  the  early  afternoon  of  an  August  day  Marie  and  Ulrik 
Frederik  were  riding,  as  often  before,  along  the  sandy  road 
that  skirted  the  Sound  beyond  East  Gate.  The  air  was  fresh 
after  a  morning  shower,  the  sun  stood  mirrored  in  the  water, 
and  blue  thunder-clouds  were  rolling  away  in  the  distance. 

They  cantered  as  quickly  as  the  road  would  allow  them, 
a  lackey  in  along  crimson  coat  foUowingclosely.  They  rode 
past  the  gardens  where  green  apples  shone  under  dark 
leaves,  past  fish-nets  hung  to  dry  with  the  raindrops  still 
glistening  in  their  meshes,  past  the  King's  fisheries  with 
red-tiled  roof,  and  past  the  glue-boiler's  house,  where  the 
smoke  rose  straight  as  a  column  out  of  a  chimney.  They 
jested  and  laughed,  smiled  and  laughed,  and  galloped  on. 

At  the  sign  of  the  Golden  Grove  they  turned  and  rode 
through  the  woods  toward  Overdrup,  then  walked  their 
horses  through  the  underbrush  down  to  the  bright  surface 
of  the  lake.  Tall  beeches  leaned  to  mirror  their  green  vault 
in  the  clear  water.  Succulent  marsh-grass  and  pale  pink 
feather-foil  made  a  wide  motley  border  where  the  slope, 
brown  with  autumn  leaves,  met  the  water.  High  in  the 
shelter  of  the  foliage,  in  a  ray  of  light  that  pierced  the  cool 
shadow,  mosquitoes  whirled  in  a  noiseless  swarm.  A  red 
butterfly  gleamed  there  for  a  second,  then  flew  out  into  the 


MARIE  GRUBBE  103 

sunlight  over  the  lake.  Steel-blue  dragon-flies  made  bright 
streaks  through  the  air,  and  the  darting  pike  drew  swift 
wavy  lines  over  the  surface  of  the  water.  Hens  were  cack- 
ling in  the  farm-yard  beyond  the  brushwood,  and  from  the 
other  side  of  the  lake  came  a  note  of  wood-doves  cooing 
under  the  domes  of  the  beech-trees  in  Dyrehaven. 

They  slackened  their  speed  and  rode  out  into  the  water 
to  let  their  horses  dabble  their  dusty  hoofs  and  quench  their 
thirst.  Marie  had  stopped  a  little  farther  out  than  Ulrik 
Frederik,  and  sat  with  reins  hanging  in  order  to  let  her  mare 
lower  its  head  freely.  She  was  tearing  the  leaves  from  a 
long  branch  in  her  hand,  and  sent  them  fluttering  down 
over  the  water,  which  was  beginning  to  stir  in  soft  ripples. 

"  I  think  we  may  get  a  thunder-storm,"  she  said,  her  eyes 
following  the  course  of  a  light  wind  that  went  whirling 
over  the  lake,  raising  round,  dark,  roughened  spots  on  the 
surface. 

"Perhaps  we  had  better  turn  back,"  suggested  Ulrik 
Frederik. 

"Not  for  gold!"  she  answered  and  suddenly  drove  her 
mare  to  the  shore.  They  walked  their  horses  round  the 
lake  to  the  road  and  entered  the  tall  woods. 

"I  would  I  knew,"  said  Marie,  when  she  felt  the  cool 
air  of  the  forest  fan  her  cheeks  and  drew  in  its  freshness  in 
long, deep  breaths.  "I  would  I  knew  — "  She  got  no  fur- 
ther, but  stopped  and  looked  up  into  the  green  vault  with 
shining  eyes. 

"What  wouldst  thou  know,  dear  heart?" 

"I  'm  thinking  there  's  something  in  the  forest  air  that 
makes  sensible  folks  mad.  Many  's  the  time  I  have  been 
walking  in  Bigum  woods,  when  I  would  keep  on  running 
and  running,  till  I  got  into  the  very  thickest  of  it.  I  'd  be 


I04  MARIE  GRUBBE 

wild  with  glee  and  sing  at  the  top  of  my  voice  and  walk 
and  pick  flowers  and  throw  them  away  again  and  call  to 
the  birds,  when  they  flew  up  —  and  then,  on  the  sudden, 
a  strange  fright  would  come  over  me, and  I  would  feel, oh! 
so  wretched  and  so  small!  Whenever  a  branch  broke  I  'd 
start,  and  the  sound  of  my  own  voice  gave  me  more  fright 
than  anything  else.  Hast  thou  never  felt  it?" 

Before  Ulrik  Frederik  could  answer  her  song  rang  out: 

"Right  merrily  in  the  woods  I  go 
Where  elm  and  apple  grow. 
And  I  pluck  me  there  sweet  roses  two 
And  deck  my  silken  shoe. 
Oh,  the  dance. 
Oh,  the  dance. 
Oh,  tra-la-la! 
Oh,  the  red,  red  berries  on  the  dogrose  bush!" 

and  as  she  sang,  the  whip  flew  down  over  her  horse,  she 
laughed,  hallooed,  and  galloped  at  top  speed  along  a  narrow 
forest  path,  where  the  branches  swept  her  shoulders.  Her 
eyes  sparkled,  her  cheeks  burned,  she  did  not  heed  Ulrik 
Frederik  calling  after  her.  The  whip  whizzed  through  the 
air  again,  and  off  she  went  with  reins  slack!  Her  flutter- 
ing habit  was  flecked  with  foam.  The  soft  earth  flew  up 
around  her  horse.  She  laughed  and  cut  the  tall  ferns  with 
her  whip. 

Suddenly  the  light  seemed  to  be  lifted  from  leaf  and 
branch  and  to  flee  from  the  rain-heavy  darkness.  The 
rustling  of  the  bushes  had  ceased,  and  the  hoof-beats  were 
silent,  as  she  rode  across  a  stretch  of  forest  glade.  On 
either  side  the  trees  stood  like  a  dark  encircling  wall. 
Ragged  gray  clouds  were  scudding  over  the  black,  lower- 


MARIE  GRUBBE  105 

Ing  heavens.  Before  her  rolled  the  murky  blue  waters  of 
the  Sound,  and  beyond  rose  banks  of  fog.  She  drew  rein, 
and  her  tired  mount  stopped  willingly.  Ulrik  Frederik 
galloped  past,  swung  back  in  a  wide  circle,  and  halted  at 
her  side. 

At  that  moment  a  shower  fell  like  a  gray,  heavy,  wet 
curtain  drawn  slantwise  over  the  Sound.  An  icy  wind  flat- 
tened the  grass,  whizzed  in  their  ears,  and  made  a  noise 
like  foaming  waves  in  the  distant  tree-tops.  Large  flat  hail- 
stones rattled  down  over  them  in  white  sheets,  settled 
like  bead  strings  in  the  folds  of  her  dress,  fell  in  a  spray 
from  the  horses' manes,  and  skipped  and  rolled  in  the  grass 
as  though  swarming  out  of  the  earth. 

They  sought  shelter  under  the  trees,  rode  down  to  the 
beach, and  presently  halted  before  the  low  door  of  the  Bide- 
a-Wee  Tavern.  A  stable-boy  took  the  horses,  and  the  tall, 
bareheaded  inn-keeper  showed  them  into  his  parlor,  where, 
he  said,  there  was  another  guest  before  them.  It  proved  to 
be  Hop-o'-my-Thumb,  who  rose  at  their  entrance,  offer- 
ing to  give  up  the  room  to  their  highnesses, but  Ulrik  Fred- 
erik graciously  bade  him  remain. 

"Stay  here,  my  man,"  he  said,  "and  entertain  us  in  this 
confounded  weather.  I  must  tell  you,  my  dear,"  —  turn- 
ing to  Marie, — "that  this  insignificant  mannikin  is  the  re- 
nowned comedian  and  merry -andrew  of  ale-houses,  Daniel 
Knopf,  well  learned  in  all  the  liberal  arts  such  as  dicing, 
fencing,  drinking,  shrovetide  sports,  and  such  matters, 
otherwise  in  fair  repute  as  an  honorable  merchant  in  the 
good  city  of  Copenhagen." 

Daniel  scarcely  heard  this  eulogy.  He  was  absorbed  in 
looking  at  Marie  Grubbe  and  formulating  some  graceful 
words  of  felicitation,  but  when  Ulrik  Frederik  roused  him 


io6  MARIE  GRUBBE 

with  a  sounding  blow  on  his  broad  back,  his  face  flushed 
with  resentment  and  embarrassment.  He  turned  to  him 
angrily,  but  mastered  himself,  and  said  with  his  coldest 
smile:  "We're  scarce  tipsy  enough,  Colonel." 

Ulrik  Frederik  laughed  and  poked  his  side,  crying :  "  Oh, 
you  sacred  knave!  Would  you  put  me  to  confusion,  you 
plaguy  devil,  and  make  me  out  a  wretched  braggart  who 
lacks  parchments  to  prove  his  boasting?  Fie,  fie,  out  upon 
you!  Is  that  just?  Have  I  not  a  score  of  times  praised  your 
wit  before  this  noble  lady,  till  she  has  time  and  again  ex- 
pressed the  greatest  longing  to  see  and  hear  your  far-famed 
drolleries  ?  You  might  at  least  give  us  the  blind  Cornelius 
Fowler  and  his  whistling  birds,  or  play  the  trick — you 
know — with  the  sick  cock  and  the  clucking  hens!" 

Marie  now  added  her  persuasions,  saying  that  Colonel 
Gyldenlove  was  quite  right,  she  had  often  wondered  what 
pastime,  what  fine  and  particular  sport,  could  keep  young 
gentlemen  in  filthy  ale-houses  for  half  days  and  whole 
nights  together,  and  she  begged  that  Daniel  would  oblige 
them  without  further  urging. 

Daniel  bowed  with  perfect  grace  and  replied  that  his  poor 
pranks  were  rather  of  a  kind  to  give  fuddled  young  sparks 
added  occasion  for  roaring  and  bawling  than  to  amuse  a 
dainty  and  highborn  young  maiden.  Nevertheless,  he  would 
put  on  his  best  speed  to  do  her  pleasure,  for  none  should 
ever  say  it  of  him  that  any  command  from  her  fair  ladyship 
had  failed  of  instant  obedience  and  execution. 

"Look  'ee!"  he  began,  throwing  himself  down  by  the 
table  and  sticking  out  his  elbows.  "Now  I  'm  a  whole  as- 
sembly of  your  betrothed's  honorable  companions  and  espe- 
cial good  friends." 

He  took  a  handful  of  silver  dollars  from  his  pocket  and 


MARIE  GRUBBE  107 

laid  them  on  the  table,  pulled  his  hair  down  over  his  eves, 
and  dropped  his  lower  lip  stupidly. 

"Devil  melt  me!"  he  drawled,  rattling  the  coins  like 
dice.  "I  'm  not  the  eldest  son  of  the  honorable  Erik  Kaase 
for  nothing!  What!  you'd  doubt  my  word,  you  muck- 
worm? I  flung  ten,  hell  consume  me,  ten  with  a  jingle! 
Can't  you  see,  you  dog?  I  'm  asking  if  you  can't  see?  — 
you  blind  lamprey,  you !  Or  d'  ye  want  me  to  rip  your  guts 
with  my  stinger  and  give  your  liver  and  lungs  a  chance  to 
see  too?  Shall  I  —  huh?  You  ass!" 

Daniel  jumped  up  and  pulled  a  long  face. 

"You'd  challenge  me,  would  you?"  he  said  hoarsely 
with  a  strong  North  Skaane  accent,  "you  stinkard,  you! 
D'  you  know  whom  you  're  challenging?  So  take  me  king 
o'  hell,  I  '11  strike  your  —  Nay,  nay,"  he  dropped  into  his 
natural  voice,  "that's  perhaps  too  strong  a  jest  to  begin 
with.  Try  another!" 

He  sat  down,  folded  his  hands  on  the  edge  of  his  knees 
as  though  to  make  room  for  his  stomach,  puffed  himself  up, 
fat  and  heavy  jowled,then  whistled  firmly  and  thoughtfully 
but  in  an  altogether  too  slow  tempo  the  ballad  of  Roselil 
and  Sir  Peter.  Then  he  stopped,  rolled  his  eyes  amorously, 
and  called  in  fond  tones: 

"Cockatoo — cockadoodle-doo ! "  He  began  to  whistle 
again, but  had  some  difficulty  in  combining  it  with  an  ingra- 
tiating smile.  "Little  sugar-top!"  he  called, "little  honey- 
dew,  come  to  me,  little  chuck!  P'st!  Will  it  lap  wine,  little 
kitty?  Lap  nice  sweet  wine  from  little  cruse?" 

Again  he  changed  his  voice,  leaned  forward  in  his  chair, 
winked  with  one  eye,  and  crooked  his  fingers  to  comb  an 
imaginary  beard. 

"Now  stay  here,"  he  said  coaxingly,  "stay  here,  fair 


io8  MARIE  GRUBBE 

Karen ;  I  'II  never  forsake  you,  and  you  must  never  for- 
sake  me," — his  voice  grew  weepy, — "we'll  never  part, 
my  dear,  dear  heart,  never  in  the  world!  Silver  and  gold 
and  honor  and  glory  and  precious  noble  blood — begone! 
I  curse  you !  Begone !  I  say.  You  're  a  hundred  heavens 
high  above  them,  the  thing  of  beauty  you  are!  Though 
they  've  scutcheons  and  emblems — would  that  make  'em 
any  better?  You  've  got  an  emblem,  too — the  red  mark  on 
your  white  shoulder  that  Master  Anders  burned  with  his 
hot  iron, that 's  your  coat-of-arms!  I  spit  on  my  scutcheon 
to  kiss  that  mark — that 's  all  I  think  of  scutcheons — 
that's  all!  For  there  isn't  in  all  the  land  of  Sjælland  a 
high-born  lady  as  lovely  as  you  are — is  there,  huh?  No, 
there  is  n't  —  not  a  bit  of  one!" 

"That's — that's  a  lie!  "he  cried  in  a  new  voice,  jumped 
up,  and  shook  his  fist  over  the  table. "  My  Mistress  Ide,you 
blockhead,  she  's  got  a  shape — as  a  man  may  say — she  's 
got  limbs — as  a  man  may  say  —  limbs,  I  tell  you,  youslub- 
berdeguUeon ! " 

At  this  point  Daniel  was  about  to  let  himself  fall  into 
the  chair  again,  but  at  that  moment  Ulrik  Frederik  pulled 
it  away,  and  he  rolled  on  the  floor.  Ulrik  Frederik  laughed 
uproariously,but  Marie  ran  to  him  with  hands  outstretched 
as  though  to  help  him  up.  The  little  man,  half  rising  on 
his  knees,  caught  her  hand  and  gazed  at  her  with  an  ex- 
pression so  full  of  gratitude  and  devotion  that  it  haunted 
her  for  a  long  time.  Presently  they  rode  home,  and  none  of 
them  thought  that  this  chance  meeting  in  the  Bide-a-Wee 
Tavern  would  lead  to  anything  further. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  States-General  that  convened  in  Copenhagen  in 
the  late  autumn  brought  to  town  many  of  the  nobility, 
all  anxious  to  guard  their  ancient  rights  against  encroach- 
ment, but  none  the  less  eager  fora  little  frolic  after  the  busy 
summer.  Nor  were  they  averse  to  flaunting  their  wealth 
and  magnificence  in  the  faces  of  the  townspeople,  who  had 
grown  somewhat  loud-voiced  since  the  war,and  to  remind- 
ing them  that  the  line  between  gentlemen  of  the  realm  and 
the  unfree  mob  was  still  firm  and  immutable,  in  spite  of 
the  privileges  conferred  by  royalty,  in  spite  of  citizen  valor 
and  the  glamor  of  victory,  in  spite  of  the  teeming  ducats  in 
the  strong  boxes  of  the  hucksters. 

The  streets  were  bright  with  throngs  of  noblemen 
and  their  ladies,  bedizened  lackeys,  and  richly  caparisoned 
horses  in  silver-mounted  harness.  There  was  feasting  and 
open  house  in  the  homes  of  the  nobility.  Far  into  the  night 
the  violin  sounded  from  well-lit  halls,  telling  the  sleepy  citi- 
zens that  the  best  blood  of  the  realm  was  warming  to  a 
stately  dance  over  parquet  floors,  while  the  wine  sparkled 
in  ancestral  goblets. 

All  these  festivities  passed  Marie  Grubbe  by ;  none  in- 
vited her.  Because  of  their  ties  to  the  royal  family,  some 
of  the  Grubbes  were  suspected  of  siding  with  the  King 
against  the  Estate,  and  moreover  the  good  old  nobility 
cordially  hated  that  rather  numerous  upper  aristocracy 
formed  by  the  natural  children  of  the  kings  and  their  rela- 
tives. Marie  was  therefore  slighted  for  a  twofold  reason, 
and  as  the  court  lived  in  retirement  during  the  session  of 
the  States-General,  it  offered  her  no  compensation. 

It  seemed  hard  at  first,  but  soon  it  woke  the  latent 


no  MARIE  GRUBBE 

defiance  of  her  nature  and  made  her  draw  closer  to  Ulrik 
Frederik.  She  loved  him  more  tenderly  for  the  very  reason 
that  she  felt  herself  being  wronged  for  his  sake.  So  when 
the  two  were  quietly  married  on  the  sixteenth  of  Decem- 
ber, sixteen  hundred  and  sixty,  there  was  the  best  reason 
to  believe  that  she  would  live  happily  with  the  Master 
of  the  King's  Hunt,  which  was  the  title  and  office  Ulrik 
Frederik  had  won  as  his  share  of  the  favors  distributed  by 
triumphant  royalty. 

This  private  ceremony  was  not  in  accordance  with  the 
original  plan,  for  it  had  long  been  the  intention  of  the 
King  to  celebrate  their  wedding  in  the  castle,  as  Chris- 
tian the  Fourth  had  done  that  of  Hans  Ulrik  and  Mistress 
Rigitze,  but  at  the  eleventh  hour  he  had  scruples  and  de- 
cided, in  consideration  of  Ulrik  Frederik's  former  mar- 
riage and  divorce,  to  refrain  from  public  display. 

So  now  they  are  married  and  settled,  and  time  passes,  and 
time  flies,  and  all  is  well — and  time  slackened  its  speed, 
and  time  crawled;  for  it  is  true,  alas!  that  when  Leander 
and  Leonora  have  lived  together  for  half  a  year,  the  glory  is 
often  departed  from  Leander's  love, though  Leonora  usually 
loves  him  much  more  tenderly  than  in  the  days  of  their  be- 
trothal. She  is  like  the  small  children,  who  find  the  old  story 
new,  no  matter  how  often  it  is  told  with  the  very  same 
words,  the  same  surprises,  and  the  self-same  "Snip,  snap, 
snout,  my  tale  's  out,"  while  Leander  is  more  exacting  and 
grows  weary  as  soon  as  his  feeling  no  longer  makes  him 
new  to  himself.  When  he  ceases  to  be  intoxicated,  he  sud- 
denly becomes  more  than  sober.  The  flush  and  glamor  of 
his  ecstasy,  which  for  a  while  gave  him  the  assurance  of  a 
demigod, suddenly  departs;  he  hesitates,  he  thinks,  and  be- 


MARIE  GRUBBE  iii 

gins  to  doubt.  He  looks  back  at  the  chequered  course  of  his 
passion, heaves  a  sigh,  and  yawns.  He  is  beset  with  longing, 
like  one  who  has  come  home  after  a  lengthy  sojourn  in  for- 
eign parts,  and  sees  the  altogether  too  familiar  though  long- 
forgotten  spots  before  him;  as  he  looks  at  them, he  wonders 
idly  whether  he  has  really  been  gone  from  this  well-known 
part  of  the  world  so  long. 

In  such  a  mood,  Ulrik  Frederik  sat  at  home  one  rainy 
day  in  September.  He  had  called  in  his  dogs  and  had  frol- 
icked with  them  for  a  while,  had  tried  to  read,  and  had 
played  a  game  of  backgammon  with  Marie.  The  rain  was 
pouring.  It  was  impossible  to  go  walking  or  riding,  and  so 
he  had  sought  his  armory,  as  he  called  it,  thinking  he  would 
polish  and  take  stock  of  his  treasures — this  was  just  the 
day  for  it!  It  occurred  to  him  that  he  had  inherited  a  chest 
of  weapons  from  Ulrik  Christian;  he  had  ordered  it  brought 
down  from  the  attic,  and  sat  lifting  out  one  piece  after 
another. 

There  were  splendid  rapiers  of  bluish  steel  inlaid  with 
gold,  or  silvery  bright  with  dull  engraving.  There  were 
hunting-knives,  some  heavy  and  one-edged,  some  long  and 
flexible  like  tongues  of  flame,  some  three-edged  and  sharp 
as  needles.  There  were  toledo  blades,  many  toledos,  light 
as  reeds  and  flexible  as  willows,  with  hilts  of  silver  and  jas- 
per agate,  or  of  chased  gold  or  gold  and  carbuncles.  One 
had  nothing  but  a  hilt  of  etched  steel,  and  for  a  sword-knot 
a  little  silk  ribbon  embroidered  in  roses  and  vines  with  red 
glass  beads  and  green  floss.  It  must  be  either  a  bracelet,  a 
cheap  bracelet,  or — Ulrik  Frederik  thought  —  more  likely 
a  garter,  and  the  rapier  was  stuck  through  it. 

It  comes  from  Spain,  said  Ulrik  Frederik  to  himself, 
for  the  late  owner  had  served  in  the  Spanish  army  for  nine 


112  MARIE  GRUBBE 

years.  Alack-a-day!  He  too  was  to  have  entered  foreign 
service  with  Carl  Gustaf;  but  then  came  the  war,  and  now 
he  supposed  he  would  never  have  a  chance  to  get  out  and 
try  his  strength,  and  yet  he  was  but  three  and  twenty.  To 
live  forever  here  at  this  tiresome  little  court, — doubly  tire- 
some since  the  nobility  stayed  at  home, — to  hunt  a  little, 
look  to  his  estate  once  in  a  while,  some  time  in  the  future 
by  the  grace  of  the  King  to  be  made  Privy  Councillor  of 
the  Realm  and  be  knighted,  keep  on  the  right  side  of  Prince 
Christian  and  retain  his  office,  now  and  then  be  sent  on  a 
tedious  embassy  to  Holland,  grow  old,  get  the  rheumatism, 
die, and  be  buried  in  Vor  Frue  Church, — such  was  the  bril- 
liant career  that  stretched  before  him.  And  now  they  were 
fighting  down  in  Spain  !  There  was  glory  to  be  won,  a  life 
to  be  lived — that  was  where  the  rapier  and  the  sword-knot 
came  from.  No,  he  must  speak  to  the  King.  It  was  still 
raining,  and  it  was  a  long  way  to  Frederiksborg,  but  there 
was  no  help  for  it.  He  could  not  wait;  the  matter  must  be 
settled. 

The  King  liked  his  scheme.  Contrary  to  his  custom,  he 
assented  at  once,  much  to  the  surprise  of  Ulrik  Frederik, 
who  during  his  whole  ride  had  debated  with  himself  all  the 
reasons  that  made  his  plan  difficult,  unreasonable,  impos- 
sible. But  the  King  said  Yes,  he  might  leave  before  Christ- 
mas. By  that  time  the  preparations  could  be  completed  and 
an  answer  received  from  the  King  of  Spain. 

The  reply  came  in  the  beginning  of  December,  but 
Ulrik  Frederik  did  not  start  until  the  middle  of  April;  for 
there  was  much  to  be  done.  Money  had  to  be  raised,  re- 
tainers equipped,  letters  written.  Finally  he  departed. 

Marie  Grubbe  was  ill  pleased  with  this  trip  to  Spain.  It 
is  true,  she  saw  the  justice  of  Mistress  Rigitze's  argument 


MARIE  GRUBBE  113 

that  it  was  necessary  for  Ulrik  Frederik  to  go  abroad  and 
win  honor  and  glory,  in  order  that  the  King  might  do  some- 
thing handsome  for  him;  for  although  his  Majesty  had 
been  made  an  absolute  monarch,  he  was  sensitive  to  what 
people  said,  and  the  noblemen  had  grown  so  captious  and 
perverse  that  they  would  be  sure  to  put  the  very  worst 
construction  on  anything  the  King  might  do.  Yet  women 
have  an  inborn  dread  of  all  farewells,  and  in  this  case  there 
was  much  to  fear.  Even  if  she  could  forget  the  chances  of 
war  and  the  long,  dangerous  journey,  and  tell  herself  that 
a  king's  son  would  be  well  taken  care  of,  yet  she  could 
not  help  her  foreboding  that  their  life  together  might  suffer 
such  a  break  by  a  separation  of  perhaps  more  than  a  year 
that  it  would  never  be  the  same  again.  Their  love  was  yet 
so  lightly  rooted,  and  just  as  it  had  begun  to  grow,  it  was  to 
be  mercilessly  exposed  to  ill  winds  and  danger.  Was  it  not 
almost  like  going  out  deliberately  to  lay  it  waste?  And  one 
thing  she  had  learned  in  her  brief  married  life:  the  kind  of 
marriage  she  had  thought  so  easy  in  the  days  of  her  be- 
trothal, that  in  which  man  and  wife  go  each  their  own  way, 
could  mean  only  misery  with  all  darkness  and  no  dawn. 
The  wedge  had  entered  their  outward  life;  God  forbid  that 
it  should  pierce  to  their  hearts !  Yet  it  was  surely  tempt- 
ing fate  to  open  the  door  by  such  a  parting. 

Moreover,  she  was  sadly  jealous  of  all  the  light  papisti- 
cal feminine  rabble  in  the  land  and  dominions  of  Spain. 

Frederik  the  Third,  who,  like  many  sovereigns  of  his  time, 
was  much  interested  in  the  art  of  transmuting  baser  metals 
into  gold,  had  charged  Ulrik  Frederik  when  he  came  to 
Amsterdam  to  call  on  a  renowned  alchemist,  the  Italian 
Burrhi,  and  to  drop  a  hint  that  if  he  should  think  of  visit- 


114  MARIE  GRUBBE 

ing  Denmark,  the  King  and  the  wealthy  Christian  Skeel 
of  Sostrup  would  make  it  worth  his  while. 

When  Ulrik  Frederik  arrived  in  Amsterdam,  he  therefore 
asked  Ole  Borch,  who  was  studying  there  and  knew  Bur- 
rhi  well,  to  conduct  him  to  the  alchemist.  They  found  him  a 
man  in  the  fifties,  below  middle  height,  and  with  a  tendency 
to  fat,  but  erect  and  springy  in  his  movements.  His  hair  and 
his  narrow  moustache  were  black,  his  nose  was  hooked  and 
rather  thick,  his  face  full  and  yellow  in  color;  from  the  cor- 
ners of  his  small,  glittering  black  eyes  innumerable  furrows 
and  lines  spread  out  like  a  fan,  giving  him  an  expression  at 
once  sly  and  goodhumored.  He  wore  a  black  velvet  coat 
with  wide  collar  and  cufFs  and  crape-covered  silver  buttons, 
black  knee-breeches  and  silk  stockings,  and  shoes  with 
large  black  rosettes.  His  taste  for  fine  lace  appeared  in  the 
edging  on  his  cravat  and  shirt  bosom  and  in  the  ruffles  that 
hung  in  thick  folds  around  his  wrists  and  knees.  His  hands 
were  small,  white,  and  chubby,  and  were  loaded  with  rings 
of  such  strange,  clumsy  shapes  that  he  could  not  bring  the 
tips  of  his  fingers  together.  Large  brilliants  glittered  even 
on  his  thumbs.  As  soon  as  they  were  seated,  he  remarked 
that  he  was  troubled  with  cold  hands  and  stuck  them  in 
a  large  fur  mufi^,  although  it  was  summer. 

The  room  into  which  he  conducted  Ulrik  Frederik  was 
large  and  spacious,with  a  vaulted  ceiling  and  narrow  Gothic 
windows  set  high  in  the  walls.  Chairs  were  ranged  around 
a  large  centre  table,  their  wooden  seats  covered  with  soft 
cushions  of  red  silk,  from  which  hung  long,  heavy  tassels. 
The  top  of  the  table  was  inlaid  with  a  silver  plate  on  which 
the  twelve  signs  of  the  zodiac,  the  planets,  and  some  of  the 
more  important  constellations  were  done  in  niello.  Above 
it,  a  string  of  ostrich  eggs  hung  from  the  ceiling.  The  floor 


MARIE  GRUBBE  115 

had  been  painted  in  a  chequered  design  of  red  and  gray,  and 
near  the  door  a  triangle  was  formed  by  old  horseshoes  that 
had  been  fitted  into  the  boards.  A  large  coral  tree  stood  under 
one  window,  and  a  cupboard  of  dark  carved  wood  with 
brass  mountings  was  placed  under  the  other.  A  life-size 
doll  representing  a  Moor  was  set  in  one  corner,  and  along 
the  walls  lay  blocks  of  tin  and  copper  ore.  The  blackamoor 
held  a  dried  palm  leaf  in  his  hand. 

When  they  were  seated  and  the  first  interchange  of 
amenities  was  over,  Ulrik  Frederik  —  they  were  speak- 
ing in  French — asked  whether  Burrhi  would  not  with  his 
learning  and  experience  come  to  the  aid  of  the  searchers 
after  wisdom  in  the  land  of  Denmark. 

Burrhi  shook  his  head. 

"'Tis  known  to  me,"  he  replied, "that  the  secret  art 
has  many  great  and  powerful  votaries  in  Denmark,  but  I 
have  imparted  instruction  to  so  many  royal  gentlemen  and 
church  dignitaries,  and  while  I  will  not  say  that  ingratitude 
or  meagre  appreciation  have  always  been  my  appointed  por- 
tion, yet  have  I  encountered  so  much  captiousness  and 
lack  of  understanding,  that  I  am  unwilling  to  assume  again 
the  duties  of  a  master  to  such  distinguished  scholars.  I 
do  not  know  what  rule  or  method  the  King  of  Denmark 
employs  in  his  investigations,  and  my  remarks  can  there- 
fore contain  no  disparagement  of  him,  but  I  can  assure  you 
in  confidence  that  I  have  known  gentlemen  of  the  high- 
est nobility  in  the  land,  nay,  anointed  rulers  and  hereditary 
kings,  who  have  been  so  ignorant  of  their  historia  naturalis 
znd  materia  magica  that  the  most  lowborn  quacksalver  could 
not  entertain  such  vulgar  superstitions  as  they  do.  They 
even  put  their  faith  in  that  widely  disseminated  though 
shameful  delusion  that  making  gold  is  like  concocting  a 


ii6  MARIE  GRUBBE 

sleeplng-potion  or  a  healing-pillula,  that  if  one  has  the  cor- 
rect ingredients,  't  is  but  to  mix  them  together,  set  them 
over  the  fire,  and  lo !  the  gold  is  there.  Such  lies  are  circu- 
lated by  catch-pennies  and  ignoramuses — whom  may  the 
devil  take!  Cannot  the  fools  understand  that  if  'twere  so 
simple  a  process,  the  world  would  be  swimming  in  gold  ? 
For  although  learned  authors  have  held,  and  surely  with 
reason,  that  only  a  certain  part  of  matter  can  be  clarified 
in  the  form  of  gold,  yet  even  so  we  should  be  flooded.  Nay, 
the  art  of  the  gold-maker  is  costly  and  exacting.  It  requires 
a  fortunate  hand,  and  there  must  be  certain  constellations 
and  conjunctions  in  the  ascendant,  if  the  gold  is  to  flow 
properly.  'T  is  not  every  year  that  matter  is  equally  gold- 
yielding.  You  have  but  to  remember  that  it  is  no  mere  dis- 
tillation nor  sublimation,  but  a  very  re-creating  of  nature 
that  is  to  take  place.  Nay,  I  will  dare  to  say  that  a  tremor 
passes  over  the  abodes  of  the  spirits  of  nature  whenever 
a  portion  of  the  pure,  bright  metal  is  freed  from  the  thou- 
sand-year-old embrace  of  inateria  vilis." 

"Forgive  my  question,"  said  Ulrik  Frederik,  "but  do 
not  these  occult  arts  imperil  the  soul  of  him  who  prac- 
tises them  ? " 

"Indeed  no,"  said  Burrhi;  "how  can  you  harbor  such 
a  thought?  What  magician  was  greater  than  Solomon, 
whose  seal,  the  great  as  well  as  the  small,  has  been  won- 
drously  preserved  to  us  unto  this  day  ?  And  who  imparted 
to  Moses  the  power  of  conjuring?  Was  it  not  Sabaoth,  the 
spirit  of  the  storm,  the  terrible  one?"  He  pressed  the  stone 
in  one  of  his  rings  to  his  lips.  "'T  is  true,"  he  continued, 
"that  we  know  great  names  of  darkness  and  awful  words, 
yea,  fearful  mystic  signs,  which  if  they  be  used  for  evil, 
as  many  witches  and  warlocks  and  vulgar  soothsayers  use 


MARIE  GRUBBE  117 

them,  instantly  bind  the  soul  of  him  who  names  them  in 
the  fetters  of  Gehenna,  but  we  call  upon  them  only  to  free 
the  sacred  primordial  element  from  its  admixture  of  and 
pollution  by  dust  and  earthly  ashes;  for  that  is  the  true  na- 
ture of  gold,  it  is  the  original  matter  that  was  in  the  begin- 
ning and  gave  light,  before  the  sun  and  the  moon  had  been 
set  in  their  appointed  places  in  the  vault  of  heaven." 

They  talked  thus  at  length  about  alchemy  and  other 
occult  arts,  until  Ulrik  Frederik  asked  whether  Burrhi  had 
been  able  to  cast  his  horoscope  by  the  aid  of  the  paper  he 
had  sent  him  through  Ole  Borch  a  few  days  earlier. 

"In  its  larger  aspects,"  replied  Burrhi,"!  might  prog- 
nosticate your  fate,  but  when  the  nativity  is  not  cast  in  the 
very  hour  a  child  is  born,  we  fail  to  get  all  the  more  subtle 
phenomena,  and  the  result  is  but  little  to  be  depended  upon. 
Yet  some  things  I  know.  Had  you  been  of  citizen  birth  and 
in  the  position  of  a  humble  physician,  then  I  should  have 
had  but  joyful  tidings  for  you.  As  it  is,  your  path  through  the 
world  is  not  so  clear.  Indeed,  the  custom  is  in  many  wavs 
to  be  deplored  by  which  the  son  of  an  artisan  becomes  an 
artisan,  the  merchant's  son  a  merchant,  the  farmer's  son  a 
farmer,  and  so  on  throughout  all  classes.  The  misfortune 
of  many  men  is  due  to  nothing  else  but  their  following  an- 
other career  than  that  which  the  stars  in  the  ascendant  at 
the  time  of  their  birth  would  indicate.  Thus  if  a  man  born 
under  the  sign  of  the  ram  in  the  first  section  becomes  a 
soldier,  success  will  never  attend  him,  but  wounds,  slow 
advancement,  and  early  death  will  be  his  assured  portion, 
whereas,  if  he  had  chosen  a  handicraft,  such  as  working  in 
stone  orwrought  metals,  his  course  would  have  run  smooth. 
One  who  is  born  under  the  sign  of  the  fishes,  if  in  the  first 
section,  should  till  the  soil,  or  if  he  be  a  man  of  fortune. 


ii8  MARIE  GRUBBE 

should  acquire  a  landed  estate,  while  he  who  is  born  in  the 
latter  part  should  follow  the  sea,  whether  it  be  as  the  skipper 
of  a  smack  or  as  an  admiral.  The  sign  of  the  bull  in  the  first 
part  is  for  warriors,  in  the  second  part  for  lawyers.  The 
twins,  which  were  in  the  ascendant  at  the  time  of  your 
birth,  are,  as  I  have  said  before,  for  physicians  in  the  first 
part  and  for  merchants  in  the  second.  But  now  let  me  see 
your  palm." 

Ulrik  Frederik  held  out  his  hand,  and  Burrhi  went  to 
the  triangle  of  horseshoes,  touching  them  with  his  shoes 
as  a  tight-rope  dancer  rubs  his  soles  over  the  waxed  board 
before  venturing  out  on  the  line.  Then  he  looked  at  the 
palm. 

"Ay,"  said  he,  "the  honor-line  is  long  and  unbroken; 
it  goes  as  far  as  it  may  go  without  reaching  a  crown.  The 
luck-line  is  somewhat  blurred  for  a  time,  but  farther  on  it 
grows  more  distinct.  There  is  the  life-line;  it  seems  but 
poor,  I  grieve  to  say.  Take  great  care  until  you  have  passed 
the  age  of  seven  and  twenty,  for  at  that  time  your  life  is 
threatened  in  some  sinister  and  secret  fashion,  but  after 
that  the  line  becomes  clear  and  strong  and  reaches  to  a 
good  old  age.  There  is  but  one  offshoot — ah,  no,  there  is 
a  smaller  one  hard  by.  You  will  have  issue  of  two  beds, 
but  few  in  each." 

He  dropped  the  hand. 

"Hark,"  he  said  gravely,  "there  is  danger  before  you, 
but  where  it  lurks  is  hidden  from  me.  Yet  it  is  in  no  wise 
the  open  danger  of  war.  If  it  should  be  a  fall  or  other  acci- 
dent of  travel,  I  would  have  you  take  these  triangular 
malachites,  they  are  of  a  particular  nature.  See,  I  myself 
carry  one  of  them  in  this  ring;  they  guard  against  falling 
from  horse  or  coach.  Take  them  with  you  and  carry  them 


MARIE  GRUBBE  119 

ever  on  your  breast,  or  if  you  have  them  set  in  a  ring, 
cut  away  the  gold  behind  them,  for  the  stone  must  touch 
if  it  is  to  protect  you.  And  here  is  a  jasper.  Do  you  sec 
the  design  like  a  tree?  It  is  very  rare  and  most  precious 
and  good  against  stabbing  in  the  dark  and  liquid  poisons. 
Once  more  I  pray  you,  my  dear  young  gentleman,  that 
you  have  a  care,  especially  where  women  are  concerned. 
Nothing  definite  is  revealed  to  me,  but  there  are  signs 
of  danger  gleaming  in  the  hand  of  a  woman,  yet  I  know 
nothing  for  a  certainty,  and  it  were  well  to  guard  also 
against  false  friends  and  traitorous  servants,  against  cold 
waters  and  long  nights." 

Ulrik  Frederik  accepted  the  gifts  graciously,  and  did  not 
neglect,  the  following  day,  to  send  the  alchemist  a  costly 
necklace,  as  a  token  of  his  gratitude  for  his  wise  counsel 
and  protecting  stones.  After  that  he  proceeded  directly  to 
Spain  without  further  interruption. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  house  seemed  very  quiet  that  spring  day  when  the 
sound  of  horses'  hoofs  had  died  away  in  the  distance. 
In  the  flurry  of  leave-taking,  the  doors  had  been  left  open; 
the  table  was  still  set  after  Ulrik  Frederik's  breakfast,  with 
his  napkin  just  as  he  had  crumpled  it  at  his  plate,  and  the 
tracks  of  his  great  riding-boots  were  still  wet  on  the  floor. 
Over  there  by  the  tall  pier-glass  he  had  pressed  her  to  his 
heart  and  kissed  and  kissed  her  in  farewell,  trying  to  com- 
fort her  with  oaths  and  vows  of  a  speedy  return.  Involun- 
tarily she  moved  to  the  mirror  as  though  to  see  whether  it 
did  not  hold  something  of  his  image,  as  she  had  glimpsed  it 
a  moment  ago,  while  locked  in  his  arms.  Her  own  lonely, 
drooping  figure  and  pale,  tear-stained  face  met  her  search- 
ing glance  from  behind  the  smooth,  glittering  surface. 

She  heard  the  street  door  close,  and  the  lackey  cleared 
the  table.  Ulrik  Frederik's  favorite  dogs,  Nero,  Passando, 
Rumor,  and  Delphine,  had  been  locked  in,  and  ran  about 
the  room,  whimpering  and  sniffing  his  tracks.  She  tried 
to  call  them,  but  could  not  for  weeping.  Passando,  the  tall 
red  fox-hound,  came  to  her;  she  knelt  down  to  stroke  and 
caress  the  dog,  but  he  wagged  his  tail  in  an  absent-minded 
way,  looked  up  into  her  face,  and  went  on  howling. 

Those  first  days — how  empty  everything  was  and  dreary ! 
The  time  dragged  slowly,  and  the  solitude  seemed  to  hang 
over  her,  heavy  and  oppressive,  while  her  longing  would 
sometimes  burn  like  salt  in  an  open  wound.  Ay,  it  was 
so  at  first,  but  presently  all  this  was  no  longer  new,  and 
the  darkness  and  emptiness,  the  longing  and  grief,  came 
again  and  again  like  snow  that  falls  flake  upon  flake, 
until  it  seemed  to  wrap  her  in  a  strange,  dull  hopelessness. 


MARIE  GRUBBE  121 

almost  a  numbness  that  made  a  comfortable  shelter  of  her 
sorrow. 

Suddenly  all  was  changed.  Every  nerve  was  strung  to  the 
most  acute  sensitiveness,  every  vein  throbbing  with  blood 
athirst  for  life,  and  her  fancy  teemed  like  the  desert  air  with 
colorful  images  and  luring  forms.  On  such  days  she  was 
like  a  prisoner  who  sees  youth  slip  by,  spring  after  spring, 
barren,  without  bloom,  dull  and  empty,  always  passing, 
never  coming.  The  sum  of  time  seemed  to  be  counted  out 
with  hours  for  pennies;  at  every  stroke  of  the  clock  one 
fell  rattling  at  her  feet,  crumbled,  and  was  dust,  while  she 
would  wring  her  hands  in  agonized  life-hunger  and  scream 
with  pain. 

She  appeared  but  seldom  at  court  or  in  the  homes  of  her 
family,  for  etiquette  demanded  that  she  should  keep  to  the 
house.  Nor  was  she  in  the  mood  to  welcome  visitors,  and 
as  they  soon  ceased  coming,  she  was  left  entirely  to  herself. 
This  lonely  brooding  and  fretting  soon  brought  on  an  indo- 
lent torpor,  and  she  would  sometimes  lie  in  bed  for  days 
and  nights  at  a  stretch,  trying  to  keep  in  a  state  betwixt 
waking  and  sleeping,  which  gave  rise  to  fantastic  visions. 
Far  clearer  than  the  misty  dream  pictures  of  healthy  sleep, 
these  images  filled  the  place  of  the  life  she  was  missing. 

Her  irritability  grew  with  every  day,  and  the  slightest 
noise  was  torture.  Sometimes  she  would  be  seized  with  the 
strangest  notions  and  with  sudden  mad  impulses  that  might 
almost  raise  a  doubt  of  her  sanity.  Indeed,  there  was  per- 
haps but  the  width  of  a  straw  between  madness  and  that 
curious  longing  to  do  some  desperate  deed,  merely  for  the 
sake  of  doing  it,  without  the  least  reason  or  even  real  desire 
for  it. 

Sometimes,  when  she  stood  at  the  open  window,  lean- 


122  MARIE  GRUBBE 

ing  against  the  casement  and  looking  down  into  the  paved 
court  below,  she  would  feel  an  overmastering  impulse  to 
throw  herself  down,  merely  to  do  it.  But  in  that  very  second 
she  seemed  to  have  actually  made  the  leap  in  her  imagina- 
tion and  to  have  felt  the  cool,  incisive  tingling  that  accom- 
panies a  jump  from  a  height.  She  darted  back  from  the  win- 
dow to  the  inmost  corner  of  the  room,  shaking  with  horror, 
the  image  of  herself  lying  in  her  own  blood  on  the  hard 
stones  so  vivid  in  her  mind  that  she  had  to  go  back  to  the 
window  again  and  look  down  in  order  to  drive  it  away. 

Less  dangerous  and  of  a  somewhat  different  nature  was 
the  fancy  that  would  seize  her  when  she  looked  at  her  own 
bare  arm  and  traced,  in  a  kind  of  fascination,  the  course 
of  the  blue  and  deep-violet  veins  under  the  white  skin.  She 
wanted  to  set  her  teeth  in  that  white  roundness,  and  she 
actually  followed  her  impulse,  biting  like  a  fierce  little  ani- 
mal mark  upon  mark,  till  she  felt  the  pain  and  would  stop 
and  begin  to  fondle  the  poor  maltreated  arm. 

At  other  times,  when  she  was  sitting  quietly,  she  would 
be  suddenly  moved  to  go  in  and  undress,  only  that  she  might 
wrap  herself  in  a  thick  quilt  of  red  silk  and  feel  the  smooth, 
cool  surface  against  her  skin,  or  put  an  ice-cold  steel  blade 
down  her  naked  back.  Of  such  whims  she  had  many. 

Finally,  after  an  absence  of  fourteen  months,  Ulrik  Fred- 
erik returned.  It  was  a  July  night,  and  Marie  lay  sleep- 
less, listening  to  the  slow  soughing  of  the  wind,  restless 
with  anxious  thoughts.  For  the  last  week  she  had  been  ex- 
pecting Ulrik  Frederik  every  hour  of  the  day  and  night, 
longing  for  his  arrival  and  fearing  it.  Would  everything  be 
as  in  olden  times — fourteen  months  ago?  Sometimes  she 
thought  no,  then  again  yes.  The  truth  was,  she  could  not 


MARIE  GRUBBE  123 

quite  forgive  him  for  that  trip  to  Spain.  She  felt  that  she  had 
aged  in  this  long  time,  had  grown  timid  and  listless,  while 
he  would  come  fresh  from  the  glamor  and  stir,  full  of  youth 
and  high  spirits,  finding  her  pale  and  faded,  heavy  of  step 
and  of  mind,  nothing  like  her  old  self.  At  first  he  would  be 
strange  and  cold  to  her;  she  would  feel  all  the  more  cast 
•down,  and  he  would  turn  from  her,  but  she  would  never 
forsake  him.  No,  no,  she  would  watch  over  him  like  a 
mother,  and  when  the  world  went  against  him  he  would 
come  back  to  her,  and  she  would  comfort  him  and  be  kind 
to  him,  bear  want  for  his  sake,  suffer  and  weep,  do  every- 
thing for  him.  At  other  times  she  thought  that  as  soon  as 
she  saw  him  all  must  be  as  before;  yes,  they  romped  through 
the  rooms  like  madcap  pages;  the  walls  echoed  their  laugh- 
ter and  revelry,  the  corners  whispered  of  their  kisses — 

With  this  fancy  in  her  mind  she  fell  into  a  light  sleep.  Her 
dreams  were  of  noisy  frolic,  and  when  she  awoke  the  noise 
was  still  there.  Quick  steps  sounded  on  the  stairs,  the  street 
door  was  thrown  open,  doors  slammed,  coaches  rumbled, 
and  horses'  hoofs  scraped  the  cobblestones. 

There  he  is!  she  thought,  sprang  up,  caught  the  large 
quilt,  and  wrapping  it  round  her,  ran  through  the  rooms. 
In  the  large  parlor  she  stopped.  A  tallow  dip  was  burning  in 
a  wooden  candlestick  on  the  floor,  and  a  few  of  the  tapers 
had  been  lit  in  the  sconces,  but  the  servant  in  his  flurry  had 
run  away  in  the  midst  of  his  preparations.  Some  one  was 
speaking  outside.  It  was  Ulrik  Frederik's  voice,  and  she 
trembled  with  emotion. 

The  door  was  opened,  and  he  rushed  in,  still  wearing  his 
hat  and  cloak.  He  would  have  caught  her  in  his  arms,  but 
got  only  her  hand,  as  she  darted  back.  He  looked  so  strange 
in  his  unfamiliar  garb.  He  was  tanned  and  stouter  than  of 


124  MARIE  GRUBBE 

old,  and  under  his  cloak  he  wore  a  queer  dress,  the  like  of 
which  she  had  never  seen.  It  was  the  new  fashion  of  long 
waistcoat  and  fur-bordered  coat,  which  quite  changed  his 
figure  and  made  him  still  more  unlike  his  old  self. 

"Marie!"  he  cried, "dear  girl!" and,he  drew  her  to  him, 
wrenching  her  wrist  till  she  moaned  with  pain.  He  heard 
nothing.  He  was  flustered  with  drink;  for  the  night  was  not 
warm,  and  they  had  baited  well  in  the  last  tavern.  Marie's 
struggles  were  of  no  avail,  he  kissed  and  fondled  her  wildly, 
immoderately.  At  last  she  tore  herself  away  and  ran  into 
the  next  room,  her  cheeks  flushed,  her  bosom  heaving,  but 
thinking  that  perhaps  this  v.as  rather  a  queer  welcome,  she 
came  back  to  him. 

Ulrik  Frederik  was  standing  in  the  same  spot,  quite  be- 
wildered between  his  efforts  to  make  his  fuddled  brain  com- 
prehend what  was  happening  and  his  struggles  to  unhook 
the  clasps  of  his  cloak.  His  thoughts  and  his  hands  were 
equally  helpless.  When  Marie  went  to  him  and  unfastened 
his  cloak,  it  occurred  to  him  that  perhaps  it  was  all  a  joke, 
and  he  burstintoa  loud  laugh, slapped  his  thigh,  writhed  and 
staggered,  threatened  Marie  archly,  and  laughed  with  maud- 
lin good  nature.  He  was  plainly  trying  to  express  something 
funny  that  had  caught  his  fancy,  started  but  could  not  find 
the  words,  and  at  last  sank  down  on  a  chair,  groaning  and 
gasping,  while  a  broad,  fatuous  smile  spread  over  his  face. 

Gradually  the  smile  gave  place  to  a  sottish  gravity.  He 
rose  and  stalked  up  and  down  in  silent,  displeased  majesty, 
planted  himself  by  the  grate  in  front  of  Marie,  one  arm 
akimbo,  the  other  resting  on  the  mantel,  and  —  still  in  his 
cups — looked  down  at  her  condescendingly.  He  made  a 
long,  potvaliant  speech  about  his  own  greatness  and  the 
honor  that  had  been  shown  him  abroad,  about  the  good  for- 


MARIE  GRUBBE  125 

tune  that  had  befallen  Marie  when  she,  a  common  noble- 
man's daughter,  had  become  the  bride  of  a  man  who  might 
have  brought  home  a  princess  of  the  blood.  Without  the 
slightest  provocation,  he  went  on  to  impress  upon  Marie 
that  he  meant  to  be  master  of  his  own  house,  and  she  must 
obey  his  lightest  nod,  he  would  brook  no  gainsaying,  no, 
not  a  word,  not  one.  However  high  he  might  raise  her,  she 
would  always  be  his  slave,  his  little  slave,  his  sweet  little 
slave,  and  at  that  he  became  as  gentle  as  a  sportive  lynx, 
wept  and  wheedled.  With  all  the  importunity  of  a  drunken 
man  he  forced  upon  her  gross  caresses  and  vulgar  endear- 
ments, unavoidable,  inescapable. 

The  next  morning  Marie  awoke  long  before  Ulrik  Fred- 
erik. She  looked  almost  with  hatred  on  the  sleeping  figure 
at  her  side.  Her  wrist  was  swollen  and  ached  from  his  vio- 
lent greeting  of  the  night  before.  He  lay  with  muscular  arms 
thrown  back  under  his  powerful,  hairy  neck.  His  broad 
chest  rose  and  fell,  breathing,  it  seemed  to  her,  a  careless 
defiance,  and  there  was  a  vacant  smile  of  satiety  on  his 
dull,  moist  lips. 

She  paled  with  anger  and  reddened  with  shame  as  she 
looked  at  him.  Almost  a  stranger  to  her  after  their  long 
parting,  he  had  forced  himself  upon  her,  demanding  her 
love  as  his  right,  cocksure  that  all  the  devotion  and  passion 
of  her  soul  were  his,  just  as  he  would  be  sure  of  finding 
his  furniture  standing  where  he  left  it  when  he  went  out. 
Confident  of  being  missed,  he  had  supposed  that  all  her 
longings  had  taken  wing  from  her  trembling  lips  to  him 
in  the  distance,  and  that  the  goal  of  all  her  desire  was  his 
own  broad  breast. 

When  Ulrik  Frederik  came  out  he  found  her  half  sitting, 
half  reclining  on  a  couch  in  the  blue  room.  She  was  pale, 


126  MARIE  GRUBBE 

her  features  relaxed,  her  eyes  downcast,  and  the  injured 
hand  lay  listlessly  in  her  lap  wrapped  in  a  lace  handker- 
chief. He  would  have  taken  it,  but  she  languidly  held  out 
her  left  hand  to  him  and  leaned  her  head  back  with  a  pained 
smile. 

Ulrik  Frederik  kissed  the  hand  she  gave  him  and  made 
a  joking  excuse  for  his  condition  the  night  before,  saying 
that  he  had  never  been  decently  drunk  all  the  time  he  had 
been  in  Spain,  for  the  Spaniards  knew  nothing  about  drink- 
ing. Besides,  if  the  truth  were  told,  he  liked  the  homemade 
alicant  and  malaga  wine  from  Johan  Lehn's  dram-shop 
and  Bryhans'  cellar  better  than  the  genuine  sweet  devilry 
they  served  down  there. 

Marie  made  no  reply. 

The  breakfast  table  was  set,  and  Ulrik  Frederik  asked 
if  they  should  not  fall  to,  but  she  begged  him  to  pardon 
her  letting  him  eat  alone.  She  wanted  nothing,  and  her 
hand  hurt;  he  had  quite  bruised  it.  When  his  guilt  was  thus 
brought  home  to  him  he  was  bound  to  look  at  the  injured 
hand  and  kiss  it,  but  Marie  quickly  hid  it  in  a  fold  of  her 
dress,  with  a  glance — he  said — like  a  tigress  defending 
her  helpless  cub.  He  begged  long,  but  it  was  of  no  use,  and 
at  last  he  sat  down  to  the  table  laughing,  and  ate  with  an 
appetite  that  roused  a  lively  displeasure  in  Marie.  Yet  he 
could  not  sit  still.  Every  few  minutes  he  would  jump  up 
and  run  to  the  window  to  look  out;  for  the  familiar  street 
scenes  seemed  to  him  new  and  curious.  With  all  this  run- 
ning, his  breakfast  was  soon  scattered  about  the  room,  his 
beer  in  one  window,  the  bread-knife  in  another,  his  nap- 
kin slung  over  the  vase  of  the  gilded  Gueridon,  and  a  bun 
on  the  little  table  in  the  corner. 

At  last  he  had  done  eating  and  settled  down  at  the  win- 


MARIE  GRUBBE  127 

dow.  As  he  looked  out,  he  kept  talking  to  Marie,  who  from 
her  couch  made  brief  answers  or  none  at  all.  This  went  on 
for  a  little  while,  until  she  came  over  to  the  window  where 
he  sat,  sighed,  and  gazed  out  drearily. 

Ulrik  Frederik  smiled  and  assiduously  turned  his  sig- 
net ring  round  on  his  finger.  "  Shall  I  breathe  on  the  sick 
hand?"  he  asked  in  a  plaintive,  pitying  tone. 

Marie  tore  the  handkerchief  from  her  hand  and  contin- 
ued to  look  out  without  a  word. 

"'Twill  take  cold,  the  poor  darling,"  he  said,  glan- 
cing up. 

Marie  stood  resting  the  injured  hand  carelessly  on  the 
window-sill.  Presently  she  began  drumming  with  her  fin- 
gers as  on  a  keyboard,  back  and  forth,  from  the  sunshine 
into  the  shadow  of  the  casement,  then  from  the  shadow 
to  the  sunlight  again. 

Ulrik  Frederik  looked  on  with  a  smile  of  pleasure  at  the 
beautiful  pale  hand  as  it  toyed  on  the  casement,  gamboled 
like  a  frisky  kitten,  crouched  as  for  a  spring,  set  its  back, 
darted  toward  the  bread-knife,  turned  the  handle  round 
and  round,  crawled  back,  lay  flat  on  the  window-sill,  then 
stole  softly  toward  the  knife  again,  wound  itself  round  the 
hilt,  lifted  the  blade  to  let  it  play  in  the  sunlight,  flew  up 
with  the  knife — 

In  a  flash  the  knife  descended  on  his  breast,  but  he 
warded  it  off,  and  it  simply  cut  through  his  long  lace  cufF 
into  his  sleeve,  as  he  hurled  it  to  the  floor  and  sprang  up 
with  a  cry  of  horror,  upsetting  his  chair,  all  in  a  second  as 
with  a  single  motion. 

Marie  was  pale  as  death.  She  pressed  her  hands  against 
her  breast,  and  her  eyes  were  fixed  in  terror  on  the  spot 
where  Ulrik  Frederik  had  been  sitting.  A  harsh,  lifeless 


128  MARIE  GRUBBE 

laughter  forced  itself  between  her  lips,  and  she  sank  down 
on  the  floor,  noiselessly  and  slowly,  as  if  supported  by  in- 
visible hands.  While  she  stood  playing  with  the  knife,  she 
had  suddenly  noticed  that  the  lace  of  Ulrik  Frederik's  shirt 
had  slipped  aside, revealinghis  chest, and  a  senseless  impulse 
had  come  over  her  to  plunge  the  bright  blade  into  that  white 
breast,  not  from  any  desire  to  kill  or  wound,  but  only  be- 
cause the  knife  was  cold  and  the  breast  warm,  or  perhaps 
because  her  hand  was  weak  and  aching  while  the  breast  was 
strong  and  sound,  but  first  and  last  because  she  could  not 
help  it,  because  her  will  had  no  power  over  her  brain  and 
her  brain  no  power  over  her  will. 

Ulrik  Frederik  stood  pale,  supporting  his  palms  on  the 
table,  which  shook  underhis  tremblingtill  thedishes  slid  and 
rattled.  As  a  rule,  he  was  not  given  to  fear  nor  wanting  in 
courage,  but  this  thing  had  come  like  a  bolt  out  of  the  blue, 
so  utterly  senseless  and  incomprehensible  that  he  could 
only  look  on  the  unconscious  form  stretched  on  the  floor 
by  the  window  with  the  same  terror  that  he  would  have  felt 
for  a  ghost.  Burrhi's  words  about  the  danger  that  gleamed  in 
the  hand  of  a  woman  rang  in  his  ears,  and  he  sank  to  his 
knees  praying;  for  all  reasonable  security,  all  common-sense 
safeguards  seemed  gone  from  this  earthly  life  together  with 
all  human  foresight.  Clearly  the  heavens  themselves  were 
taking  sides;  unknown  spirits  ruled,  and  fate  was  deter- 
mined by  supernatural  powers  and  signs.  Why  else  should 
she  have  tried  to  kill  him?  Why?  Almighty  God, why, why? 
Because  it  must  be — must  be. 

He  picked  up  the  knife  almost  furtively,  broke  the  blade, 
and  threw  the  pieces  into  the  empty  grate.  Still  Marie 
did  not  stir.  Surely  she  was  not  wounded  ?  No,  the  knife 
was  bright,  and  there  was  no  blood  on  his  cufFs,  but  she  lay 


MARIE  GRUBBE  129 

there  as  quiet  as  death  itself.  He  hurried  to  her  and  Hfted 
her  in  his  arms. 

Marie  sighed, opened  her  eyes, and  gazed  straight  out  be- 
fore her  with  a  hfeless  expression, then, seeing  Uhik  Fred- 
erik, threw  her  arms  around  him,  kissed  and  fondled  him, 
still  without  a  word.  Her  smile  was  pleased  and  happy,  but 
a  questioning  fear  lurked  in  her  eyes.  Her  glance  seemed 
to  seek  something  on  the  floor.  She  caught  Ulrik  PVeder- 
ik's  wrist,  passed  her  hand  over  his  sleeve,  and  when  she 
saw  that  it  was  torn  and  the  cuff  slashed,  she  shrieked  with 
horror. 

"Then  I  really  did  it!"  she  cried  in  despair.  "O  God 
in  highest  heaven,  preserve  my  mind,  I  humbly  beseech 
Thee!  But  why  don't  you  ask  questions?  Why  don't  you 
fling  me  away  from  you  like  a  venomous  serpent  ?  And  yet, 
God  knows,  I  have  no  part  nor  fault  in  what  I  did.  It  sim- 
ply came  over  me.  There  was  something  that  forced  me. 
I  swear  to  you  by  my  hope  of  eternal  salvation,  there  was 
something  that  moved  my  hand.  Ah,  you  don't  believe  it! 
How  can  you?"  And  she  wept  and  moaned. 

But  Ulrik  Frederik  believed  her  implicitly,  for  this  fully 
bore  out  his  own  thoughts.  He  comforted  her  with  tender 
words  and  caresses,  though  he  felt  a  secret  horror  of  her  as 
a  poor  helpless  tool  under  the  baleful  spell  of  evil  powers. 
Nor  could  he  get  over  this  fear,  though  Marie,  day  after 
day,  used  every  art  of  a  clever  woman  to  win  back  his  con- 
fidence. She  had  indeed  sworn,  that  first  morning,  that  she 
would  make  Ulrik  Frederik  put  forth  all  his  charms  and 
exercise  all  his  patience  in  wooing  her  over  again,  but  now 
her  behavior  said  exactly  the  reverse.  Every  look  implored; 
every  word  was  a  meek  vow.  In  a  thousand  trifles  of  dress 
and  manner,  in  crafty  surprises  and  delicate  attentions,  she 


130  MARIE  GRUBBE 

confessed  her  tender,  clinging  love  every  hour  of  the  day, 
and  if  she  had  merely  had  the  memory  of  that  morning's 
incident  to  overcome,  she  would  certainly  have  u'on,  but 
greater  forces  were  arrayed  against  her. 

Ulrik  Frederik  had  gone  away  an  impecunious  prince 
from  a  land  where  the  powerful  nobility  by  no  means  looked 
upon  the  natural  son  of  a  king  as  more  than  their  equal. 
Absolute  monarchy  was  yet  young,  and  the  principle  that 
a  king  was  a  man  who  bought  his  power  by  paying  in  kind 
was  very  old.  The  light  of  demi-godhead,  which  in  later 
days  cast  a  halo  about  the  hereditary  monarch,  had  barely 
been  lit,  and  was  yet  too  faint  to  dazzle  any  one  who  did 
not  stand  very  near  it. 

From  this  land  Ulrik  Frederik  had  gone  to  the  army  and 
court  of  Philip  the  Fourth,  and  there  he  had  been  showered 
with  gifts  and  honors, had  been  made  Grand  d'Espagne  and 
put  on  the  same  footing  as  Don  Juan  of  Austria.  The  king 
made  it  a  point  to  do  homage  in  his  person  to  Frederik  the 
Third,  and  in  bestowing  on  him  every  possible  favor  he 
sought  to  express  his  satisfaction  with  the  change  of  govern- 
ment in  Denmark  and  his  appreciation  of  King  Frederik's 
triumphant  efforts  to  enter  the  ranks  of  absolute  monarchs. 

Intoxicated  and  elated  with  all  this  glory,  which  quite 
changed  his  conception  of  his  own  importance,  Ulrik  Fred- 
erik soon  saw  that  he  had  acted  with  unpardonable  folly 
in  making  the  daughter  of  a  common  nobleman  his  wife. 
Thoughts  of  making  her  pay  for  his  mistake,  confused 
plans  for  raising  her  tohis  rank  and  for  divorcing  her  chased 
one  another  through  his  brain  during  his  trip  homeward. 
On  top  of  this  came  his  superstitious  fear  that  his  life  was 
in  danger  from  her,  and  he  made  up  his  mind  that  until  he 
could  see  his  course  more  clearly,  he  would  be  cold  and 


MARIE  GRUBBE  131 

ceremonious  in  his  manner  to  her  and  repel  every  attempt 
to  revive  the  old  idyllic  relation  between  them. 

Frederik  the  Third,  who  was  by  no  means  lacking  in 
power  of  shrewd  observation, soon  noticed  that  Ulrik  Fred- 
erik was  not  pleased  with  his  marriage,  and  he  divined  the 
reason.  Thinking  to  raise  Marie  Grubbe  in  Ulrik  Fred- 
erik's  eyes,  he  distinguished  her  whenever  he  could  and 
showered  upon  her  every  mark  of  royal  grace,  but  it  was  of 
no  avail.  It  merely  raised  an  army  of  suspicious  and  jealous 
enemies  around  the  favorite. 

The  Royal  Family  spent  the  summer,  as  often  before,  at 
Frederiksborg.  Ulrik  Frederik  and  Marie  moved  out  there 
to  help  plan  the  junketings  and  pageants  that  were  to  be 
held  in  September  and  October,  when  the  Elector  of  Sax- 
ony was  coming  to  celebrate  his  betrothal  with  the  Prin- 
cess Anne  Sofie.  The  court  was  small  as  yet,  but  the  circle 
was  to  be  enlarged  in  the  latter  part  of  August,  when  the 
rehearsals  of  ballets  and  other  diversions  were  to  begin.  It 
was  very  quiet,  and  they  had  to  pass  the  time  as  best  they 
could.  Ulrik  Frederik  took  long  hunting  and  fishing  trips 
almost  every  day.  The  King  was  busy  at  his  turning-lathe 
or  in  the  laboratory  which  he  had  fitted  up  in  one  of  the 
small  towers.  The  Queen  and  the  princesses  were  embroi- 
dering for  the  coming  festivities. 

In  the  shady  lane  that  led  from  the  woods  up  to  the 
wicket  of  the  little  park,  Marie  Grubbe  was  wont  to  take 
her  morning  walk.  She  was  there  to-day.  Up  in  the  lane, 
her  dress  of  madder-red  shone  against  the  black  earth  of 
the  walk  and  the  green  leaves.  Slowly  she  came  nearer.  A 
jaunty  black  felt  hat  trimmed  only  with  a  narrow  pearl 
braid  rested  lightly  on  her  hair,  which  was  piled  up  in 


132  MARIE  GRUBBE 

heavy  ringlets.  A  silver-mounted  solitaire  gleamed  on  the 
rim  vi^here  it  w^as  turned  up  on  the  side.  Her  bodice  fit- 
ted smoothly,  and  her  sleeves  were  tight  to  the  elbow, 
whence  they  hung,  deeply  slashed,  held  together  by  clasps 
of  mother-of-pearl  and  lined  with  flesh-colored  silk.  Wide, 
close-meshed  lace  covered  her  bare  arms.  The  robe  trailed 
a  little  behind,  but  was  caught  up  high  on  the  sides,  falling 
in  rounded  folds  across  the  front,  and  revealing  a  black  and 
white  diagonally  striped  skirt,  which  was  just  long  enough 
to  give  a  glimpse  of  black-clocked  stockings  and  pearl- 
buckled  shoes.  She  carried  a  fan  of  swan's  feathers  and 
raven's  quills. 

Near  the  wicket  she  stopped,  breathed  in  her  hollow 
hand,  held  it  first  to  one  eye  then  to  the  other,  tore  ofF  a 
branch  and  laid  the  cool  leaves  on  her  hot  eyelids.  Still 
the  signs  of  weeping  were  plainly  to  be  seen.  She  went  in 
at  the  wicket  and  started  up  toward  the  castle,  but  turned 
back  and  struck  into  a  side-path. 

Her  figure  had  scarcely  vanished  between  the  dark  green 
box-hedges  when  a  strange  and  sorry  couple  appeared  in 
the  lane:  a  man  who  walked  slowly  and  unsteadily  as  though 
he  had  just  risen  from  a  severe  illness,  leaning  on  a  woman 
in  an  old-fashioned  cloth  coat  and  with  a  wide  green  shade 
over  her  eyes.  The  man  was  trying  to  go  faster  than  his 
strength  would  allow,  and  the  woman  was  holding  him 
back,  while  she  tripped  along,  remonstrating  querulously. 

"  Hold,  hold ! "  she  said.  "  Wait  a  bit  and  take  your  feet 
with  you !  You  're  running  on  like  a  loose  wheel  going  down 
hill.  Weak  limbs  must  be  weakly  borne.  Gently  now !  Is  n't 
that  what  she  told  you,  the  wise  woman  in  Lynge?  What 
sense  is  there  in  limping  along  on  legs  that  have  no  more 
starch  nor  strength  than  an  old  rotten  thread!" 


MARIE  GRUBBE  133 

"Alack,  good  Lord,  what  legs  they  are!"  whimpered 
the  sick  man  and  stopped;  for  his  knees  shook  under  him. 
"Now  she's  all  out  of  sight"  —  he  looked  longingly  at 
the  wicket — "all  out  of  sight!  And  there  will  be  no  prom- 
enade to-day,  the  harbinger  says,  and  it 's  so  long  till  to- 
morrow ! " 

"There,  there,  Daniel  dear,  the  time  will  pass,  and  you 
can  rest  to-day  and  be  stronger  to-morrow,  and  then  we  shall 
follow  her  all  through  the  woods  way  down  to  the  wicket, 
indeed  we  shall.  But  now  we  must  go  home,  and  you  shall 
rest  on  the  soft  couch  and  drink  a  good  pot  of  ale,  and  then 
we  shall  play  a  game  of  reversis,  and  later  on,  when  their 
highnesses  have  supped,  Reinholdt  Vintner  will  come,  and 
then  you  shall  ask  him  the  news,  and  we  '11  have  a  good 
honest  lanterloo,  till  the  sun  sinks  in  the  mountains,  indeed 
we  shall,  Daniel  dear,  indeed  we  shall." 

"'Ndeed  we  shall, 'ndeed  we  shall!"  jeered  Daniel. 
"You  with  your  lanterloo  and  games  and  reversis!  When 
my  brain  is  burning  like  molten  lead,  and  my  mind  's  in  a 
frenzy,  and — Help  me  to  the  edge  of  the  road  and  let  me 
sit  down  a  moment  —  there !  Am  I  in  my  right  mind,  Mag- 
nille?  Huh?  I  'm  mad  as  a  fly  in  a  flask,  that 's  what  I  am. 
'Tis  sensible  in  a  lowborn  lout, a  miserable, mangy,  rickety 
wretch,  to  be  eaten  up  with  frantic  love  of  a  prince's  con- 
sort! Oh  ay,  it's  sensible,  Magnille,  to  long  for  her  till 
my  eyes  pop  out  of  my  head,  and  to  gasp  like  a  fish  on  dry 
land  only  to  see  a  glimpse  of  her  form  and  to  touch  with 
my  mouth  the  dust  she  has  trodden  —  'tis  sensible,  I'm 
saying.  Oh,  if  it  were  not  for  the  dreams,  when  she  comes 
and  bends  over  me  and  lays  her  white  hand  on  my  tortured 
breast — or  lies  there  so  still  and  breathes  so  softly  and  is 
so  cold  and  forlorn  and  has  none  to  guard  her  but  only  me 


134  MARIE  GRUBBE 

— or  she  flits  by  white  as  a  naked  lily!  —  but  it's  empty 
dreams,  vapor  and  moonshine  only, and  frothy  air-bubbles." 

They  walked  on  again.  At  the  wicket  they  stopped,  and 
Daniel  supported  his  arms  on  it  while  his  gaze  followed 
the  hedges. 

"In  there,"  he  said. 

Fair  and  calm  the  park  spread  out  under  the  sunlight  that 
bathed  air  and  leaves.  The  crystals  in  the  gravel  walk  threw 
back  the  light  in  quivering  rays.  Hanging  cobwebs  gleamed 
through  the  air,  and  the  dry  sheaths  of  the  beech-buds  flut- 
tered slowly  to  the  ground,  while  high  against  the  blue  sky, 
the  white  doves  of  the  castle  circled  with  sungold  on  swift 
wings.  A  merry  dance-tune  sounded  faintly  from  a  lute  in 
the  distance. 

"What  a  fool!"  murmured  Daniel.  "Should  you  think, 
Magnille,  that  one  who  owned  the  most  precious  pearl  of 
all  the  Indies  would  hold  it  as  naught  and  run  after  bits  of 
painted  glass?  Marie  Grubbe  and  —  Karen  Fiol!  Is  he  in 
his  right  mind?  And  now  they  think  he  's  hunting,  because 
forsooth  he  lets  the  gamekeeper  shoot  for  him,  and  comes 
back  with  godwits  and  woodcocks  by  the  brace  and  bagful, 
and  all  the  while  he  's  fooling  and  brawling  down  at  Lynge 
with  a  town-woman,  a  strumpet.  Faugh,  faugh!  Lake  of 
brimstone,  such  filthy  business !  And  he  's  so  jealous  of  that 
spring  ewe-lambkin,  he  's  afraid  to  trust  her  out  of  his  sight 
for  a  day,  while — " 

The  leaves  rustled,  and  Marie  Grubbe  stood  before  him 
on  the  other  side  of  the  wicket.  After  she  turned  into  the 
side-path,  she  had  gone  down  to  the  place  where  the  elks  and 
Esrom  camels  were  kept,  and  thence  back  to  a  little  arbor 
near  the  gate.  There  she  had  overheard  what  Daniel  said 
to  Magnille,  and  now — 


MARIE  GRUBBE  135 

"Who  are  you?"  she  asked,  "and  were  they  true,  the 
words  you  spoke?" 

Daniel  grasped  the  wicket  and  could  hardly  stand  for 
trembling. 

"  Daniel  Knopf,  your  ladyship,  mad  Daniel,"  he  replied. 
"  Pay  no  heed  to  his  talk,  it  runs  from  his  tongue,  sense  and 
nonsense,  as  it  happens,  brain-chaff  and  tongue-thresh- 
ing, tongue-threshing  and  naught  else." 

"You  lie,  Daniel." 

"Ay,  ay,  good  Lord,  I  lie;  I  make  no  doubt  I  do;  for 
in  here,  your  ladyship" — he  pointed  to  his  forehead  — 
"'t  is  like  the  destruction  of  Jerusalem.  Courtesy,  Mag- 
nille,  and  tell  her  ladyship.  Madam  Gyldenlove,  how  daft  I 
am.  Don't  let  that  put  you  out  of  countenance.  Speak  up, 
Magnille !  After  all  we  're  no  more  cracked  than  the  Lord 
made  us." 

"Is  he  truly  mad?"  Marie  asked  Magnille. 

Magnille,  in  her  confusion,  bent  down,  caught  a  fold 
of  Marie's  dress  through  the  bars  of  the  wicket,  kissed  it, 
and  looked  quite  frightened.  "  Oh,  no,  no,  indeed  he  is  not, 
God  be  thanked." 

*'  She  too  "  —  said  Dan  iel,  waving  his  arm.  *'  We  take  care 
of  each  other,  we  two  mad  folks,  as  well  as  we  can.  'T  is 
not  the  best  of  luck,  but  good  Lord,  though  mad  we  be  yet 
still  we  see,  we  walk  abroad  and  help  each  other  get  under 
the  sod.  But  no  one  rings  over  our  graves;  for  that 's  not 
allowed.  I  thank  you  kindly  for  asking.  Thank  you,  and 
God  be  with  you." 

"Stay,"  said  Marie  Grubbe."  You  are  no  more  mad  than 
you  make  yourself.  You  must  speak,  Daniel.  Would  you 
have  me  think  so  ill  of  you  as  to  take  you  for  a  go-between 
of  my  lord  and  her  you  mentioned  ?  Would  you  ? " 


136  MARIE  GRUBBE 

"A  poor  addle-pated  fellow!"  whimpered  Daniel,  wav- 
ing his  arm  apologetically. 

"God  forgive  you,  Daniel!  'T  is  a  shameful  game  you 
are  playing;  and  I  believed  so  much  better  of  you — so  very 
much  better." 

"Did  you?  Did  you  truly?"  he  cried  eagerly,  his  eyes 
shining  with  joy.  "Then  I'm  in  my  right  mind  again. 
You  've  but  to  ask." 

"Was  it  the  truth  what  you  said?" 

"As  the  gospel,  but — " 

"You  are  sure?  There  is  no  mistake?" 

Daniel  smiled. 

"Is — he  there  to-day?" 

"Is  he  gone  hunting?" 

"Yes." 

"Then,  yes." 

"What  manner"  —  Marie  began  after  a  short  pause — 
"what  manner  of  woman  is  she,  do  you  know?" 

"Small,  your  ladyship,  quite  small,  round  and  red  as  a 
pippin,  merry  and  prattling,  laughing  mouth  and  tongue 
loose  at  both  ends." 

"But  what  kind  of  people  does  she  come  from?" 

*''T  is  now  two  years  ago  or  two  and  a  half  since  she 
was  the  wife  of  a  French  valet  de  chamhre^  who  fled  the 
country  and  deserted  her,  but  she  did  n't  grieve  long  for  him ; 
she  joined  her  fate  with  an  out-at-elbows  harp-player,  went 
to  Paris  with  him,  and  remained  there  and  at  Brussels, 
until  she  returned  here  last  Whitsun.  In  truth,  she  has  a 
natural  good  understanding  and  a  pleasing  manner,  ex- 
cept at  times  when  she  is  tipsy.  This  is  all  the  knowledge 
I  have." 

"Daniel!"  she  said  and  stopped  uncertainly. 


MARIE  GRUBBE  137 

"Daniel,"  he  replied  with  a  subtle  smile, "is  as  faithful 
to  you  now  and  forever  as  your  own  right  hand." 

"Then  will  you  help  me?  Can  you  get  me  a — a  coach 
and  coachman  who  is  to  be  trusted,  the  instant  I  give  the 
word?" 

"Indeed  and  indeed  I  can.  In  less  than  an  hour  from  the 
moment  you  give  the  word  the  coach  shall  hold  in  Herman 
Plumber's  meadow  hard  by  the  old  shed.  You  may  depend 
on  me,  your  ladyship." 

Marie  stood  still  a  moment  and  seemed  to  consider.  "I 
will  see  you  again,"  she  said,  nodded  kindly  to  Magnille, 
and  left  them. 

"  Is  she  not  the  treasure  house  of  all  beauties,  Magnille  ? " 
cried  Daniel, gazing  rapturously  up  the  walk  where  she  had 
vanished.  "And  so  peerless  in  her  pride!"  he  went  on  tri- 
umphantly. "  Ah,  she  would  spurn  me  with  her  foot,  scorn- 
fully set  her  foot  on  my  neck,  and  softly  tread  me  down  in 
the  deepest  dust, if  she  knewhow  boldly  Danieldares  dream 
of  her  person — So  consuming  beautiful  and  glorious !  My 
heart  burned  in  me  with  pity  to  think  that  she  had  to  confide 
in  me,  to  bend  the  majestic  palm  of  her  pride  —  But  there  's 
ecstasy  in  that  sentiment,  Magnille,  heavenly  bliss,  Mag- 
nilchen!" 

And  they  tottered  ofF  together. 

The  coming  of  Daniel  and  his  sister  to  Frederiksborg 
had  happened  in  this  wise.  After  the  meeting  in  the  Bide-a- 
Wee  Tavern,  poor  Hop-o'-my-Thumb  had  been  seized 
with  an  insane  passion  for  Marie.  It  was  a  pathetic,  fantas- 
tic love, that  hoped  nothing,asked  nothing, and  craved  noth- 
ing but  barren  dreams.  No  more  at  all.  The  bit  of  reality 
that  he  needed  to  give  his  dreams  a  faint  color  of  life  he 
found  fully  in  occasional  glimpses  of  her  near  by  or  flitting 


138  MARIE  GRUBBE 

past  in  the  distance.  When  Gyldenlove  departed,  and  Marie 
never  went  out,  his  longing  grew  apace,  until  it  made  him 
almost  insane,  and  at  last  threw  him  on  a  sick-bed. 

When  he  rose  again,  weak  and  wasted,  Gyldenlove  had 
returned.  Through  one  of  Marie's  maids,  who  was  in  his 
pay, he  learned  that  the  relation  between  Marie  and  her  hus- 
band was  not  the  best,  and  this  news  fed  his  infatuation  and 
gave  it  new  growth,  the  rank  unnatural  growth  of  fantasy. 
Before  he  had  recovered  enough  from  his  illness  to  stand 
steadily  on  his  feet,  Marie  left  for  Frederiksborg.  He  must 
follow  her;  he  could  not  wait.  He  made  a  pretence  of  con- 
sulting the  wise  woman  in  Lynge,  in  order  to  regain  his 
strength,  and  urged  his  sister  Magnille  to  accompany  him 
and  seek  a  cure  for  her  weak  eyes.  Friends  and  neighbors 
found  this  natural, and  ofFtheydrove,  Daniel  and  Magnille, 
to  Lynge.  There  he  discovered  Gyldenlove's  affair  with 
Karen  Fiol,  and  there  he  confided  all  to  Magnille,  told 
her  of  his  strange  love,  declared  that  for  him  light  and  the 
breath  of  life  existed  only  where  Marie  Grubbe  was,  and 
begged  her  to  go  with  him  to  the  village  of  Frederiksborg 
that  he  might  be  near  her  who  filled  his  mind  so  completely. 

Magnille  humored  him.  They  took  lodgings  at  Freder- 
iksborg and  had  for  days  been  shadowing  Marie  Grubbe 
on  her  lonely  morning  walks.  Thus  the  meeting  had  come 
about. 


CHAPTER  XI 

A  FEW  days  later,  Ulrik  Frederik  was  spending  the 
morningat  Lynge.  He  was  crawling  on  all  fours  in  the 
little  garden  outside  of  the  house  where  Karen  Fiol  lived. 
One  hand  was  holding  a  rose  wreath,  while  with  the  other 
he  was  trying  to  coax  or  drag  a  little  white  lapdog  from 
under  the  hazel  bushes  in  the  corner. 

"Boncæur!  Petit,  petit  Boncæur!  Come,  you  little 
rogue,  oh,  come,  you  silly  little  fool!  Oh,  you  brute,  you 
—  Boncæur,  little  dog, — you  confounded  obstinate  crea- 
ture!" 

Karen  was  standing  at  the  window  laughing.  The  dog 
would  not  come,  and  Ulrik  Frederik  wheedled  and  swore. 

**Amy  des  morceaux  délicats," 
sang  Karen,  swinging  a  goblet  full  of  wine: 

*'Et  de  la  débauche  polie 
Viens  noyer  dans  nos  Vins  Muscats 
Ta  soif  et  ta  mélancolie!" 

She  was  in  high  spirits,  rather  heated,  and  the  notes  of 
her  song  rose  louder  than  she  knew.  At  last  Ulrik  Frederik 
caught  the  dog.  He  carried  it  to  the  window  in  triumph, 
pressed  the  rose  chaplet  down  over  its  ears,  and,  kneeling, 
presented  it  to  Karen. 

"Adorable  Venus,  queen  of  hearts,  I  beg  you  to  accept 
from  your  humble  slave  this  little  innocent  white  lamb 
crowned  with  flowers — " 

At  that  moment,  Marie  Grubbe  opened  the  wicket.  When 
she  saw  Ulrik  Frederik  on  his  knees,  handing  a  rose  gar- 
land, or  whatever  it  was,  to  that  red,  laughing  woman,  she 


I40  MARIE  GRUBBE 

turned  pale,  bent  down,  picked  up  a  stone,  and  threw  it 
with  all  her  might  at  Karen.  It  struck  the  edge  of  the 
window,  and  shivered  the  glass  in  fragments,  which  fell 
rattling  to  the  ground. 

Karen  darted  back,  shrieking.  Ulrik  Frederik  looked 
anxiously  in  after  her.  In  his  surprise  he  had  dropped  the 
dog,  but  he  still  held  the  wreath,  and  stood  dumbfounded, 
angry,  and  embarrassed,  turning  it  round  in  his  fingers. 

"  Wait,  wait ! "  cried  Marie.  "  I  missed  you  this  time, but 
I  'U  get  you  yet!  I  '11  get  you!"  She  pulled  from  her  hair 
a  long,  heavy  steel  pin  set  with  rubies,  and  holding  it  before 
her  like  a  dagger,  she  ran  toward  the  house  with  a  queer 
tripping,  almost  skipping  gait.  It  seemed  as  though  she  were 
blinded,  for  she  steered  a  strange  meandering  course  up  to 
the  door. 

There  Ulrik  Frederik  stopped  her. 

'Kjo  away!"  she  cried,  almost  whimpering,  "you  with 
your  chaplet!  Such  a  creature" —  she  went  on,  trying  to 
slip  past  him,  first  on  one  side,  then  on  the  other,  her  eyes 
fixed  on  the  door — "such  a  creature  you  bind  wreaths 
for — rose-wreaths,  ay,  here  you  play  the  lovesick  shep- 
herd !  Have  you  not  a  flute,  too  ?  Where  's  your  flute  ? "  she 
repeated,  tore  the  wreath  from  his  hand,  hurled  it  to  the 
ground,  and  stamped  on  it.  "And  a  shepherd's  crook — 
Amaryllis — with  a  silk  bow?  Let  me  pass,  I  say!"  She 
lifted  the  pin  threateningly. 

He  caught  both  her  wrists  and  held  her  fast.  "Would  you 
sting  again?"  he  said  sharply. 

Marie  looked  up  at  him. 

"Ulrik  Frederik!"  she  said  in  a  low  voice, "I  am  your 
wife  before  God  and  men.  Why  do  you  not  love  me  any 
more  ?  Come  with  me !  Leave  the  woman  in  there  for  what 


MARIE  GRUBBE  141 

she  is,  and  come  with  me !  Come,  Ulrik  Frederik,  you  little 
know  what  a  burning  love  I  feel  for  you,  and  how  bitterly 
I  have  longed  and  grieved!  Come,  pray  come!" 

Ulrik  Frederik  made  no  reply.  He  offered  her  his  arm 
and  conducted  her  out  of  the  garden  to  her  coach,  which 
was  waiting  not  far  away.  He  handed  her  in,  went  to  the 
horses*  heads  and  examined  the  harness,  changed  a  buckle, 
and  called  the  coachman  down,  under  pretence  of  getting 
him  to  fix  the  couplings.  While  they  stood  there  he  whis- 
pered: "The  moment  you  get  into  your  seat,  you  are  to 
drive  on  as  hard  as  your  horses  can  go,  and  never  stop 
till  you  get  home.  Those  are  my  orders,  and  I  believe  you 
know  me." 

The  man  had  climbed  into  his  seat,  Ulrik  Frederik  caught 
the  side  of  the  coach  as  though  to  jump  in,  the  whip  cracked 
and  fell  over  the  horses,  he  sprang  back,  and  the  coach 
rattled  on. 

Marie's  first  impulse  was  to  order  the  coachman  to  stop, 
to  take  the  reins  herself,  or  to  jump  out,  but  then  a  strange 
lassitude  came  over  her,  a  deep  unspeakable  loathing,  a 
nauseating  weariness,  and  she  sat  quite  still,  gazing  ahead, 
never  heeding  the  reckless  speed  of  the  coach. 

Ulrik  Frederik  was  again  with  Karen  Fiol. 

When  Ulrik  Frederik  returned  to  the  castle  that  evening,  he 
was,  in  truth,  a  bit  uneasy — not  exactly  worried,  but  with 
the  sense  of  apprehension  people  feel  when  they  know  there 
are  vexations  and  annoyances  ahead  of  them  that  can- 
not be  dodged,  but  must  somehow  be  gone  through  with. 
Marie  had,  of  course,  complained  to  the  King.  The  King 
would  give  him  a  lecture,  and  he  would  have  to  listen  to  it 
all.  Marie  would  wrap  herself  in  the  majestic  silence  of 


142 


MARIE  GRUBBE 


offended  virtue,  which  he  would  be  at  pains  to  ignore.  The 
whole  atmosphere  would  be  oppressive.  The  Queen  would 
look  fatigued  and  afflicted — genteelly  afflicted — and  the 
ladies  of  the  court,  who  knew  nothing  and  suspected  every- 
thing, would  sit  silently,  now  and  then  lifting  their  heads 
to  sigh  meekly  and  look  at  him  with  gentle  upbraiding  in 
large,  condoning  eyes.  Oh,  he  knew  it  all,  even  to  the  halo 
of  noble-hearted  devotion  with  which  the  Queen's  poor 
groom  of  the  chambers  would  try  to  deck  his  narrow  head ! 
The  fellow  would  place  himself  at  Ulrik  Frederik's  side 
with  ludicrous  bravado,  overwhelming  him  with  polite  at- 
tentions and  respectfully  consoling  stupidities,  while  his 
small  pale-blue  eyes  and  every  line  of  his  thin  figure  would 
cry  out  as  plainly  as  words :  "  See,  all  are  turning  from  him, 
but  /,  never!  Braving  the  King's  anger  and  the  Queen's 
displeasure,  I  comfort  the  forsaken !  I  put  my  true  heart 
against — "  Oh,  how  well  he  knew  it  all — everything  — 
the  whole  story ! 

Nothing  of  all  this  happened.  The  King  received  him 
with  a  Latin  proverb,  a  sure  sign  that  he  was  in  a  good 
humor.  Marie  rose  and  held  out  her  hand  to  him  as  usual, 
perhaps  a  little  colder,  a  shade  more  reserved,  but  still  in 
a  manner  very  different  from  what  he  had  expected.  Not 
even  when  they  were  left  alone  together  did  she  refer  with 
so  much  as  a  word  to  their  encounter  at  Lynge,  and  Ulrik 
Frederik  wondered  suspiciously.  He  did  not  know  what  to 
make  of  this  curious  silence;  he  would  almost  rather  she 
had  spoken. 

Should  he  draw  her  out,  thank  her  for  not  saying  any- 
thing, give  himself  up  to  remorse  and  repentance,  and  play 
the  game  that  they  were  reconciled  again  ? 

Somehow  he  did  not  quite  dare  to  try  it;  for  he  had 


MARIE  GRUBBE  143 

noticed  that,  now  and  then,  she  would  gaze  furtively  at 
him  with  an  inscrutable  expression  in  her  eyes,  as  if  she 
were  looking  through  him  and  taking  his  measure,  with  a 
calm  wonder,  a  cool,  almost  contemptuous  curiosity.  Not 
a  gleam  of  hatred  or  resentment,  not  a  shadow  of  grief  or 
reproach,  not  one  tremulous  glance  of  repressed  sadness! 
Nothing  of  that  kind,  nothing  at  all! 

Therefore  he  did  not  venture,  and  nothing  was  said. 
Once  in  a  while,  as  the  days  went  by,  his  thoughts  would 
dwell  on  the  matter  uneasily,  and  he  would  feel  a  feverish 
desire  to  have  it  cleared  up.  Still  it  was  not  done,  and  he 
could  not  rid  himself  of  a  sense  that  these  unspoken  accu- 
sations lay  like  serpents  in  a  dark  cave,  brooding  over  sin- 
ister treasures,  which  grew  as  the  reptiles  grew,  blood-red 
carbuncles  rising  on  stalks  of  cadmium,  and  pale  opal  in 
bulb  upon  bulb  slowly  spreading,  swelling,  and  breeding, 
while  the  serpents  lay  still  but  ceaselessly  expanding,  glid- 
ing forth  in  sinuous  bend  upon  bend,  lifting  ring  upon  ring 
over  the  rank  growth  of  the  treasure. 

She  must  hate  him,  must  be  harboring  secret  thoughts  of 
revenge;  for  an  insult  such  as  he  had  dealt  her  could  not  be 
forgotten.  He  connected  this  imagined  lust  for  vengeance 
with  the  strange  incident  when  she  had  lifted  her  hand 
against  him  and  with  Burrhi's  warning.  So  he  avoided  her 
more  than  ever,  and  wished  more  and  more  ardently  that 
their  ways  might  be  parted. 

But  Marie  was  not  thinking  of  revenge.  She  had  for- 
gotten both  him  and  Karen  Fiol.  In  that  moment  of  un- 
utterable disgust  her  love  had  been  wiped  out  and  left  no 
traces,  as  a  glittering  bubble  bursts  and  is  no  more.  The 
glory  of  it  is  no  more,  and  the  iridescent  colors  it  lent  to 
every  tiny  picture  mirrored  in  it  are  no  more.  They  are 


144  MARIE  GRUBBE 

gone,  and  the  eye  which  was  held  by  their  splendor  and 
beauty  is  free  to  look  about  and  gaze  far  out  over  the  world 
which  was  once  reflected  in  the  glassy  bubble. 

The  number  of  guests  in  the  castle  increased  day  by  day. 
The  rehearsals  of  the  ballet  were  under  way,  and  the  dan- 
cing-masters and  play-actors,  Pilloy  and  Kobbereau,  had 
been  summoned  to  give  instruction  as  well  as  to  act  the 
more  difficult  or  less  grateful  roles. 

Marie  Grubbe  was  to  take  part  in  the  ballet  and  re- 
hearsed eagerly.  Since  that  day  at  Slangerup,  she  had  been 
more  animated  and  sociable  and,  as  it  were,  more  awake. 
Her  intercourse  with  those  about  her  had  always  before 
been  rather  perfunctory.  When  nothing  special  called  her 
attention  or  claimed  her  interest,  she  had  a  habit  of  slipping 
back  into  her  own  little  world,  from  which  she  looked 
out  at  her  surroundings  with  indifferent  eyes;  but  now  she 
entered  into  all  that  was  going  on,  and  if  the  others  had 
not  been  so  absorbed  by  the  new  and  exciting  events  of 
those  days, they  would  have  been  astonished  at  herchanged 
manner.  Her  movements  had  a  quiet  assurance,  her  speech 
an  almost  hostile  subtlety,  and  her  eyes  observed  every- 
thing. As  it  was,  no  one  noticed  her  except  Ulrik  Frederik, 
who  would  sometimes  catch  himself  admiring  her  as  if  she 
were  a  stranger. 

Among  the  guests  who  came  in  August  was  Sti  Hogh, 
the  husband  of  Marie's  sister.  One  afternoon,  not  long 
after  his  arrival,  she  was  standing  with  him  on  a  hillock  in 
the  woods,  from  which  they  could  look  out  over  the  village 
and  the  flat,  sun-scorched  land  beyond.  Slow,  heavy  clouds 
were  forming  in  the  sky,  and  from  the  earth  rose  a  dry, 
bitter  smell  like  a  sigh  of  drooping,  withering  plants  for  the 


MARIE  GRUBBE  145 

life-giving  water.  A  faint  wind,  scarcely  strong  enough  to 
move  the  windmill  at  the  cross-road  below,  was  soughing 
forlornly  in  the  tree-tops  like  a  timid  wail  of  the  forest  burn- 
ing under  summer  heat  and  sun-glow.  As  a  beggar  bares 
his  pitiful  wound,  so  the  parched,  yellow  meadows  spread 
their  barren  misery  under  the  gaze  of  heaven. 

The  clouds  gathered  and  lowered,  and  a  few  raindrops 
fell,  one  by  one,  heavy  as  blows  on  the  leaves  and  straws, 
which  would  bend  to  one  side,  shake,  and  then  be  suddenly 
still  again.  The  swallows  flew  low  along  the  ground,  and 
the  blue  smoke  of  the  evening  meal  drooped  like  a  veil  over 
the  black  thatched  roofs  in  the  village  near  by. 

A  coach  rumbled  heavily  over  the  road,  and  from  the 
walks  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  came  the  sound  of  low  laughter 
and  merry  talk,  rustling  of  fans  and  silk  gowns,  barking 
of  tiny  lapdogs,  and  snapping  and  crunching  of  dry  twigs. 
The  court  was  taking  its  afternoon  promenade. 

Marie  and  Sti  Hogh  had  left  the  others  to  climb  the 
hill,  and  were  standing  quite  breathless  after  their  hurried 
ascent  of  the  steep  path. 

Sti  Hogh  was  then  a  man  in  his  early  thirties,  tall  and 
lean,  with  reddish  hair  and  a  long,  narrow  face.  He  was  pale 
and  freckled,  and  his  thin,  yellow-white  brows  were  arched 
high  over  bright,  light  gray  eyes,  which  had  a  tired  look 
as  if  they  shunned  the  light,  a  look  caused  partly  by  the 
pink  color  that  spread  all  over  the  lids,  and  partly  by  his 
habit  of  winking  more  slowly,  or  rather  of  keeping  his  eyes 
closed  longer,  than  other  people  did.  The  forehead  was  high, 
the  temples  well  rounded  and  smooth.  The  nose  was  thin, 
faintly  arched,  and  rather  long,  the  chin  too  long  and  too 
pointed,  but  the  mouth  was  exquisite,  the  lips  fresh  in  color 
and  pure  in  line,  the  teeth  small  and  white.  Yet  it  was  not 


146  MARIE  GRUBBE 

its  beauty  that  drew  attention  to  this  mouth ;  it  was  rather 
the  strange,  melancholy  smile  of  the  voluptuary,  a  smile 
made  up  of  passionate  desire  and  weary  disdain,  at  once 
tender  as  sweet  music  and  bloodthirsty  as  the  low,  satisfied 
growl  in  the  throat  of  the  beast  of  prey  when  its  teeth  tear 
the  quivering  flesh  of  its  victim. 

Such  was  Sti  Hogh — then. 

"Madam,"  said  he,  "have  you  never  wished  that  you 
were  sitting  safe  in  the  shelter  of  convent  walls,  such  as 
they  have  them  in  Italy  and  other  countries  ? " 

"Mercy,  no!  How  should  I  have  such  mad  fancies!" 

"Then,  my  dear  kinswoman,  you  are  perfectly  happy? 
Your  cup  of  life  is  clear  and  fresh, it  is  sweet  toyourtongue, 
warms  your  blood,  and  quickens  your  thoughts?  Is  it,  in 
truth,  never  bitter  as  lees,  flat  and  stale?  Never  fouled  by 
adders  and  serpents  that  crawl  and  mumble?  If  so,  your 
eyes  have  deceived  me." 

"Ah, you  would  fain  bring  me  to  confession!"  laughed 
Marie  in  his  face. 

Sti  Hogh  smiled  and  led  her  to  a  little  grass  mound, 
where  they  sat  down.  He  looked  searchingly  at  her. 

"  Know  you  not,"  he  began  slowly  and  seeming  to  hesi- 
tate whether  to  speak  or  be  silent,"  know  you  not, madam, 
that  there  is  in  the  world  a  secret  society  which  I  might  call 
'the  melancholy  company'?  It  is  composed  of  people  who 
at  birth  have  been  given  a  different  nature  and  constitution 
from  others,  who  yearn  more  and  covet  more,  whose  pas- 
sions are  stronger,and  whose  desires  burn  more  wildly  than 
those  of  the  vulgar  mob.  They  are  like  Sunday  children, 
with  eyes  wider  open  and  senses  more  subtle.  They  drink 
with  the  very  roots  of  their  hearts  that  delight  and  joy  of 
life  which  others  can  only  grasp  between  coarse  hands." 


MARIE  GRUBBE  147 

He  paused  a  moment,  took  his  hat  in  his  hand,  and  sat 
idly  running  his  fingers  through  the  thick  plumes. 

"But,"  he  went  on  in  a  lower  voice  as  speaking  to 
himself,  "pleasure  in  beauty,  pleasure  in  pomp  and  all  the 
things  that  can  be  named,  pleasure  in  secret  impulses  and 
in  thoughts  that  pass  the  understanding  of  man — all  that 
which  to  the  vulgar  is  but  idle  pastime  or  vile  revelry  —  is 
to  these  chosen  ones  like  healing  and  precious  balsam.  It 
is  to  them  the  one  honey-filled  blossom  from  which  they 
suck  their  daily  food,  and  therefore  they  seek  flowers  on 
the  tree  of  life  where  others  would  never  think  to  look, 
under  dark  leaves  and  on  dry  branches.  But  the  mob — 
what  does  it  know  of  pleasure  in  grief  or  despair?" 

He  smiled  scornfully  and  was  silent. 

"But  wherefore,"  asked  Marie  carelessly,  looking  past 
him,  "wherefore  name  them  ^the  melancholy  company,' 
since  they  think  but  of  pleasure  and  the  joy  of  life,  but 
never  of  what  is  sad  and  dreary  ? " 

Sti  Hogh  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  seemed  about  to 
rise,  as  though  weary  of  the  theme  and  anxious  to  break 
ofF  the  discussion. 

"But  wherefore?"  repeated  Marie. 

"  Wherefore !"  he  cried  impatiently, and  there  was  anote 
of  disdain  in  his  voice.  "  Because  all  the  joys  of  this  earth 
are  hollow  and  pass  away  as  shadows.  Because  every  plea- 
sure, while  it  bursts  into  bloom  like  a  flowering  rosebush, 
in  the  selfsame  hour  withers  and  drops  its  leaves  like  a  tree 
in  autumn.  Because  every  delight,  though  it  glow  in  beauty 
and  the  fullness  of  fruition,  though  it  clasp  you  in  sound 
arms,  is  that  moment  poisoned  by  the  cancer  of  death,  and 
even  while  it  touches  your  mouth  you  feel  it  quivering  in 
the  throes  of  corruption.  Is  it  joyful  to  feel  thus?  Must  it 


148  MARIE  GRUBBE 

not  rather  eat  like  reddest  rust  into  every  shining  hour,  ay, 
like  frost  nip  unto  death  every  fruitful  sentiment  of  the 
soul  and  blight  it  down  to  its  deepest  roots?" 

He  sprang  up  from  his  seat  and  gesticulated  down  at  her 
as  he  spoke.  "And  you  ask  why  they  are  called  'the  mel- 
ancholy company,'  when  every  delight,  in  the  instant  you 
grasp  it,  sheds  its  slough  in  a  trice  and  becomes  disgust, 
when  all  mirth  is  but  the  last  woeful  gasp  of  joy,  when  all 
beauty  is  beauty  that  passes,  and  all  happiness  is  happiness 
that  bursts  like  the  bubble!" 

He  began  to  walk  up  and  down  in  front  of  her. 

"  So  it  is  this  that  leads  your  thoughts  to  the  convent  ? " 
asked  Marie,  and  looked  down  with  a  smile. 

"It  is  so  indeed,  madam.  Many  a  time  have  I  fancied 
myself  confined  in  a  lonely  cell  or  imprisoned  in  a  high 
tower,  sitting  alone  at  my  window,  watching  the  light  fade 
and  the  darkness  well  out,  while  the  solitude,  silent  and 
calm  and  strong,  has  grown  up  around  my  soul  and  covered 
it  like  plants  of  mandrake  pouring  their  drowsy  juices  in 
my  blood.  Ah,  but  I  know  full  well  that  it  is  naught  but  an 
empty  conceit;  never  could  the  solitude  gain  power  over 
me !  I  should  long  like  fire  and  leaping  flame  for  life  and 
what  belongs  to  life — long  till  I  lost  my  senses!  But  you 
understand  nothing  of  all  this  I  am  prating.  Let  us  go, 
ma  chere!  The  rain  is  upon  us;  the  wind  is  laid." 

"Ah,  no,  the  clouds  are  lifting.  See  the  rim  of  light  all 
around  the  heavens!" 

"Ay,  lifting  and  lowering." 

"I  say  no,"  declared  Marie,  rising. 

"I  swear  yes,  with  all  deference." 

Marie  ran  down  the  hill,  "  Man's  mind  is  his  kingdom. 
Come,  now,  down  into  yours!" 


MARIE  GRUBBE  149 

At  the  foot  of  the  hill  Marie  turned  into  the  path  lead- 
ing away  from  the  castle,  and  Sti  walked  at  her  side. 

"Look  you,  Sti  Hogh,"  said  Marie,  "since  you  seem 
to  think  so  well  of  me,  I  would  have  you  know  that  I  am 
quite  unlearned  in  the  signs  of  the  weather  and  likewise 
in  other  people's  discourse." 

"Surely  not." 

**In  what  you  are  saying — yes." 

"Nay." 

"Now  I  swear  yes." 

"Oaths  gouge  no  eye  without  fist  follows  after." 

"Faith,  you  may  believe  me  or  not,  but  God  knows  I 
ofttimes  feel  that  great  still  sadness  that  comes  we  know 
not  whence.  Pastor  Jens  was  wont  to  say  it  was  a  long- 
ing for  our  home  in  the  kingdom  of  heaven,  which  is  the 
true  fatherland  of  every  Christian  soul,  but  I  think  it  is 
not  that.  We  long  and  sorrow  and  know  no  living  hope  to 
comfort  us — ah,  how  bitterly  have  I  wept!  It  comes  over 
one  with  such  a  strange  heaviness  and  sickens  one's  heart, 
and  one  feels  so  tired  of  one's  own  thoughts  and  wishes 
one  had  never  been  born.  But  it  is  not  the  briefness  of 
these  earthly  joys  that  has  weighed  on  my  thoughts  or 
caused  me  grief.  No,  never!  It  was  something  quite  differ- 
ent— but  't  is  quite  impossible  to  give  that  grief  a  name. 
Sometimes  I  have  thought  it  was  really  a  grief  over  some 
hidden  flaw  in  my  own  nature,  some  inward  hurt  that 
made  me  unlike  other  people — lesser  and  poorer.  Ah,  no, 
it  passes  everything  how  hard  it  is  to  find  words — in  just 
the  right  sense.  Look  you,  this  life — this  earth — seems 
to  me  so  splendid  and  wonderful,  I  should  be  proud  and 
happy  beyond  words  just  to  have  some  part  in  it.  Whether 
for  joy  or  grief  matters  not,  but  that  I  might  sorrow  or 


150  MARIE  GRUBBE 

rejoice  in  honest  truth,  not  in  play  like  mummeries  or 
Shrovetide  sports.  I  would  feel  life  grasping  me  with  such 
hard  hands  that  I  was  lifted  up  or  cast  down  until  there 
was  no  room  in  my  mind  for  aught  else  but  that  which 
lifted  me  up  or  cast  me  down.  I  would  melt  in  my  grief 
or  burn  together  with  my  joy !  Ah,  you  can  never  under- 
stand it!  If  I  were  like  one  of  the  generals  of  the  Roman 
empire  who  were  carried  through  the  streets  in  triumphal 
chariots,  I  myself  would  be  the  victory  and  the  triumph. 
I  would  be  the  pride  and  jubilant  shouts  of  the  people  and 
the  blasts  of  the  trumpets  and  the  honor  and  the  glory  — 
all,  all  in  one  shrill  note.  That  is  what  I  would  be.  Never 
would  I  be  like  one  who  merely  sits  there  in  his  miserable 
ambition  and  cold  vanity  and  thinks,  as  the  chariot  rolls 
on,  how  he  shines  in  the  eyes  of  the  crowd  and  how  help- 
lessly the  waves  of  envy  lick  his  feet,  while  he  feels  with 
pleasure  the  purple  wrapping  his  shoulders  softly  and  the 
laurel  wreath  cooling  his  brow.  Do  you  understand  me, 
Sti  Hogh  ?  That  is  what  I  mean  by  life,  that  is  what  I  have 
thirsted  after,  but  I  have  felt  in  my  own  heart  that  such 
life  could  never  be  mine,  and  it  was  borne  in  on  me  that, 
in  some  strange  manner,  I  was  myself  at  fault,  that  I  had 
sinned  against  myself  and  led  myself  astray.  I  know  not 
how  it  is,  but  it  has  seemed  to  me  that  this  was  whence 
my  bitter  sorrow  welled,  that  I  had  touched  a  string  which 
must  not  sound, and  its  tonehad  sundered  something  within 
me  that  could  never  be  healed.  Therefore  I  could  never 
force  open  the  portals  of  life,  but  had  to  stand  without, 
unbidden  and  unsought,  like  a  poor  maimed  bondwoman." 
"You!"  exclaimed  Sti  Hogh  in  astonishment;  then, his 
face  changing  quickly,  he  went  on  in  another  voice:  "Ah, 
now  I  see  it  all ! "  He  shook  his  head  at  her.  "  By  my  troth, 


MARIE  GRUBBE  151 

how  easily  a  man  may  befuddle  himself  in  these  matters! 
Our  thoughts  are  so  rarely  turned  to  the  road  where  every 
stile  and  path  is  familiar,  but  more  often  they  run  amuck 
wherever  we  catch  sight  of  anything  that  bears  a  likeness 
to  a  trail, and  we  're  ready  to  swear  it 's  the  King's  highway. 
Am  I  not  right,  ma  ckere?  Have  we  not  both,  each  for 
herself  or  himself,  in  seeking  a  source  of  our  melancholy, 
caught  the  first  thought  we  met  and  made  it  into  the  one 
and  only  reason?  Would  not  any  one, judging  from  our 
discourse,  suppose  that  I  went  about  sore  afflicted  and 
weighed  down  by  the  corruption  of  the  world  and  the 
passing  nature  of  all  earthly  things,  while  you,  my  dear 
kinswoman,  looked  on  yourself  as  a  silly  old  crone,  on 
whom  the  door  had  been  shut,  and  the  lights  put  out,  and  all 
hope  extinguished!  But  no  matter  for  that!  When  we  get 
to  that  chapter,  we  are  easily  made  heady  by  our  own  words, 
and  ride  hard  on  any  thought  that  we  can  bit  and  bridle." 
In  the  walk  below  the  others  were  heard  approaching, 
and,  joining  them,  they  returned  to  the  castle. 

At  half-past  the  hour  of  eight  in  the  evening  of  September 
twenty-sixth,  the  booming  of  cannon  and  the  shrill  trumpet 
notes  of  a  festive  march  announced  that  both  their  Majes- 
ties, accompanied  by  his  Highness  Prince  Johan,  the  Elec- 
tor of  Saxony,  and  his  royal  mother,  and  followed  by  the 
most  distinguished  men  and  women  of  the  realm,  were  pro- 
ceeding from  the  castle,  down  through  the  park,  to  witness 
the  ballet  which  was  soon  to  begin. 

A  row  of  flambeaux  cast  a  fiery  sheen  over  the  red  wall, 
made  the  yew  and  box  glow  like  bronze,  and  lent  all  faces 
the  ruddy  glow  of  vigorous  health. 

See,  scarlet-clothed  halberdiers  are  standing  in  double 


152  MARIE  GRUBBE 

rows,  holding  flower-wreathed  tapers  high  against  the  dark 
sky.  Cunningly  wrought  lanterns  and  candles  in  sconces 
and  candelabra  send  their  rays  low  along  the  ground  and 
high  among  the  yellowing  leaves,  forcing  the  darkness 
back,  and  opening  a  shining  path  for  the  resplendent  train. 

The  light  glitters  on  gold  and  gilded  tissue,  beams 
brightly  on  silver  and  steel,  glides  in  shimmering  stripes 
down  silks  and  sweeping  satins.  Softly  as  a  reddish  dew, 
it  is  breathed  over  dusky  velvet,  and  flashing  white,  it  falls 
like  stars  among  rubies  and  diamonds.  Reds  make  a  brave 
show  with  the  yellows;  clear  sky-blue  closes  over  brown; 
streaks  of  lustrous  sea-green  cut  their  way  through  white 
and  violet-blue;  coral  sinks  between  black  and  lavender; 
golden  brown  and  rose,  steel-gray  and  purple  are  whirled 
about,  light  and  dark,  tint  upon  tint,  in  eddying  pools  of 
color. 

They  are  gone.  Down  the  walk,  tall  plumes  nod  white, 
white  in  the  dim  air.  .  .  . 

The  ballet  or  masquerade  to  be  presented  is  called  Die 
Waldlust.  The  scene  is  a  forest.  Crown  Prince  Christian, 
impersonating  a  hunter,  voices  his  delight  in  the  free  life  of 
the  merry  greenwood.  Ladies,  walking  about  under  leafy 
crowns,  sing  softly  of  the  fragrant  violets.  Children  play 
at  hide  and  seek  and  pick  berries  in  pretty  little  baskets. 
Jovial  citizens  praise  the  fresh  air  and  the  clear  grape, 
while  two  silly  old  crones  are  pursuing  a  handsome  young 
rustic  with  amorous  gestures. 

Then  the  goddess  of  the  forest,  the  virginal  Diana,glides 
forward  in  the  person  of  her  Royal  Highness  the  Princess 
Anne  Sofie.  The  Elector  leaps  from  his  seat  with  delight  and 
throws  her  kisses  with  both  hands,  while  the  court  applauds. 

As  soon  as  the  goddess  has  disappeared,  a  peasant  and 


MARIE  GRUBBE  153 

his  goodwife  come  forward  and  sing  a  duet  on  the  delights 
of  love.  One  gay  scene  follows  another.  Three  young  gen- 
tlemen are  decking  themselves  with  green  boughs;  five 
officers  are  making  merry;  two  rustics  come  rollicking 
from  market;  a  gardener's  'prentice  sings,  a  poet  sings,  and 
finally  six  persons  play  some  sprightly  music  on  rather 
fantastic  instruments. 

This  leads  up  to  the  last  scene,  which  is  played  by  eleven 
shepherdesses,  their  Royal  Highnesses  the  Princesses  Anne 
Sofie,  Friderica  Amalie, and  Vilhelmina  Ernestina, Madam 
Gyldenlove,  and  seven  young  maidens  of  the  nobility. 
With  much  skill  they  dance  a  pastoral  dance,  in  which 
they  pretend  to  tease  Madam  Gyldenlove  because  she  is 
lost  in  thoughts  of  love  and  refuses  to  join  their  gay  minuet. 
They  twit  her  with  giving  up  her  freedom  and  bending  her 
neck  under  the  yoke  of  love,  but  she  steps  forward,  and,  in 
a  graceful  pas  de  deux  which  she  dances  with  the  Princess 
Anne  Sofie,  reveals  to  her  companion  the  abounding  trans- 
ports and  ecstasies  of  love.  Then  all  dance  forward  merrily, 
winding  in  and  out  in  intricate  figures,  while  an  invisible 
chorus  sings  in  their  praise  to  the  tuneful  music  of  stringed 
instruments: 

"IhrNiimphen  hochberiihmt,  ihr  sterblichen  Gottinnen, 
Durch  deren  TrefPligkeit  sich  lassen  Heldensinnen 
Ja  auch  die  Gotter  selbst  bezwingen  fiir  und  fur. 
Last  nun  durch  diesen  Tantz  erblicken  cure  Zier 
Der  Glieder  Hurtigkeit,  die  euch  darum  gegeben 
So  schon  und  pråchtig  sind,  und  zu  den  End  erheben 
Was  an  euch  gottlich  ist,  auff  dass  je  mehr  und  mehr 
Man preisen mog  an  euch  desSchopfersMacht  und  Ehr." 

This  ended  the  ballet.  The  spectators  dispersed  through 


154  MARIE  GRUBBE 

the  park,  promenading  through  well-lit  groves  or  resting 
in  pleasant  grottos,  while  pages  dressed  as  Italian  or  Span- 
ish fruit-venders  offered  wine,  cake,  and  comfits  from  the 
baskets  they  carried  on  their  heads. 

The  players  mingled  with  the  crowd  and  were  compli- 
mented on  their  art  and  skill,  but  all  were  agreed  that,  with 
the  exception  of  the  Crown  Princess  and  Princess  Anne  So- 
fie, none  had  acted  better  than  Madam  Gyldenlove.  Their 
Majesties  and  the  Electress  praised  her  cordially,  and  the 
King  declared  that  not  even  Mademoiselle  La  Barre  could 
have  interpreted  the  role  with  more  grace  and  vivacity. 

Far  into  the  night  the  junketing  went  on  in  the  lighted 
park  and  the  adjoining  halls  of  the  castle,  where  violins 
and  flutes  called  to  the  dance,  and  groaning  boards  invited 
to  drinking  and  carousing.  From  the  lake  sounded  the  gay 
laughter  of  revellers  in  gondolas  strung  with  lamps.  People 
swarmed  everywhere.  The  crowds  were  densest  where  the 
light  shone  and  the  music  played,  more  scattered  where  the 
illumination  was  fainter,  but  even  where  darkness  reigned 
completely  and  the  music  was  almost  lost  in  the  rustling  of 
leaves,  there  were  merry  groups  and  silent  couples.  One 
lonely  guest  had  strayed  far  off  to  the  grotto  in  the  eastern 
end  of  the  garden  and  had  found  a  seat  there,  but  he  was 
in  a  melancholy  mood.  The  tiny  lantern  in  the  leafy  roof 
of  the  grotto  shone  on  a  sad  mien  and  pensive  brows  — 
yellow-white  brows. 

It  was  Sti  Hogh. 

"  .  .  .  E  di  persona 
Anzi  grande,  che  no ;  di  vista  allegra, 
Di  bionda  chioma,  e  colorita  alquanto," 

he  whispered  to  himself. 


MARIE  GRUBBE  155 

He  had  not  come  unscathed  fromhis  four  or  five  weeks  of 
constant  intercourse  with  Marie  Grubbe.  She  had  absolutely 
bewitched  him.  He  longed  only  for  her,  dreamed  only  of 
her;  she  was  his  hope  and  his  despair.  He  had  loved  before, 
but  never  like  this,  never  so  timidly  and  weakly  and  hope- 
lessly. It  was  not  the  fact  that  she  was  the  wife  of  Ulrik 
Frederik,nor  that  he  was  married  to  her  sister,  which  robbed 
him  of  his  courage.  No,  it  was  in  the  nature  of  his  love  to 
be  faint-hearted — his  calf-love,  he  called  it  bitterly.  It  had 
so  little  desire,  so  much  fear  and  worship,  and  yet  so  much 
desire.  A  wistful,  feverish  languishing  for  her,  a  morbid 
longing  to  live  with  her  in  her  memories,  dream  her  dreams, 
suffer  her  sorrows,  and  share  her  sad  thoughts,  no  more,  no 
less.  How  lovely  she  had  been  in  the  dance,  but  how  dis- 
tant and  unattainable!  The  round  gleaming  shoulders,  the 
full  bosom  and  slender  limbs,  they  took  his  breath  away. 
He  trembled  before  that  splendor  of  body,  which  made  her 
seem  richer  and  more  perfect,  and  hardly  dared  to  let  him- 
self be  drawn  under  its  spell.  He  feared  his  own  passion  and 
the  fire,  hell-deep,  heaven-high,  that  smouldered  within 
him.  That  arm  around  his  neck,  those  lips  pressed  against 
his — it  was  madness,  imbecile  dreams  of  a  madman !  This 
mouth  — 

"Paragon  di  dolcezza! 

.  .  .  bocca  beata, 

.  .  .  bocca  gentil,  che  puo  ben  dirsi 

Conca  d'  Indo  odorata 

Di  perle  orientali  e  pellegrine: 

E  la  porta,  che  chiude 

Ed  apre  il  bel  tesoro, 

Con  dolcissimo  mel  porpora  mista." 


156  MARIE  GRUBBE 

He  started  from  the  bench  as  with  pain.  No,  no!  He 
clung  to  his  own  humble  longing  and  threw  himself  again 
in  his  thoughts  at  her  feet,  clutched  at  the  hopelessness  of 
his  love,  held  up  before  his  eyes  the  image  of  her  indiffer- 
ence, and  —  Marie  Grubbe  stood  there  in  the  arched  door 
of  the  grotto,  fair  against  the  outside  darkness. 

All  that  evening  she  had  been  in  a  strangely  enraptured 
mood.  She  felt  calm  and  sound  and  strong.  The  music  and 
pomp,  the  homage  and  admiration  of  the  men,  were  like 
a  carpet  of  purple  spread  out  for  her  feet  to  tread  upon. 
She  was  intoxicated  and  transported  with  her  own  beauty. 
The  blood  seemed  to  shoot  from  her  heart  in  rich,  glowing 
jets  and  become  gracious  smiles  on  her  lips,  radiance  in  her 
eyes,  and  melody  in  her  voice.  Her  mind  held  an  exultant 
serenity,  and  her  thoughts  were  clear  as  a  cloudless  sky. 
Her  soul  seemed  to  unfold  its  richest  bloom  in  this  blissful 
sense  of  power  and  harmony. 

Never  before  had  she  been  so  fair  as  with  that  imperious 
smile  of  joy  on  her  lips  and  the  tranquillity  of  a  queen  in 
her  eyes  and  bearing,  and  thus  she  stood  in  the  arched  door 
of  the  grotto,  fair  against  the  outside  darkness.  Looking 
down  at  Sti  Hogh,  she  met  his  gaze  of  hopeless  adoration, 
and  at  that  she  bent  down,  laid  her  white  hand  as  in  pity 
on  his  hair,  and  kissed  him.  Not  in  love — no, no! — but  as 
a  king  may  bestow  a  precious  ring  on  a  faithful  vassal  as  a 
mark  of  royal  grace  and  favor,  so  she  gave  him  her  kiss  in 
calm  largesse. 

As  she  did  so,  her  assurance  seemed  to  leave  her  for  a 
moment,  and  she  blushed,  while  her  eyes  fell.  If  Sti  Hogh 
had  tried  to  take  her  then  or  to  receive  her  kiss  as  anything 
more  than  a  royal  gift,  he  would  have  lost  her  forever,  but 
he  knelt  silently  before  her,  pressed  her  hand  gratefully 


MARIE  GRUBBE  157 

to  his  lips,  then  stepped  aside  reverently  and  saluted  her 
deeply  with  head  bared  and  neck  bent.  She  walked  past 
him  proudly,  away  from  the  grotto  and  into  the  darkness. 


CHAPTER  XII 

IN  January  of  sixteen  hundred  and  sixty-four,  Ulrik 
Frederik  was  appointed  Viceroy  of  Norway,  and  in 
the  beginning  of  April  the  same  year,  he  departed  for  his 
post.  Marie  Grubbe  went  with  him. 

The  relation  between  them  had  not  improved,  except 
in  so  far  as  the  lack  of  mutual  understanding  and  mutual 
love  had,  as  it  were,  been  accepted  by  both  as  an  unalter- 
able fact,  and  found  expression  in  the  extremely  ceremo- 
nious manner  they  had  adopted  toward  each  other. 

For  a  year  or  more  after  they  had  moved  to  Aggershus, 
things  went  on  much  in  the  same  way,  and  Marie,  for  her 
part,  desired  no  change.  Not  so  Ulrik  Frederik;  for  he  had 
again  become  enamored  of  his  wife. 

On  a  winter  afternoon,  in  the  gloaming,  Marie  Grubbe 
sat  alone  in  the  little  parlor  known  from  olden  time  as  the 
Nook.  The  day  was  cloudy  and  dark,  with  a  raw,  bluster- 
ing wind.  Heavy  flakes  of  melting  snow  were  plastered  into 
the  corners  of  the  tiny  window-panes,  covering  almost  half 
the  surface  of  the  greenish  glass.  Gusts  of  wet,  chilly  wind 
went  whirling  down  between  the  high  walls,  where  they 
seemed  to  lose  their  senses  and  throw  themselves  blindly 
upon  shutters  and  doors,  rattling  them  fiercely,  then  flying 
skyward  again  with  a  hoarse,  dog-like  whimper.  Powerful 
blasts  came  shrieking  across  the  roofs  opposite  and  hurled 
themselves  against  windows  and  walls,  pounding  like  waves, 
then  suddenly  dying  away.  Now  and  again  a  squall  would 
come  roaring  down  the  chimney.  The  flames  ducked  their 
frightened  heads,  and  the  white  smoke,  timidly  curling 
toward  the  chimney  like  the  comb  of  a  breaker,  would 
shrink  back,  ready  to  throw  itself  out  into  the  room.  Ah, 


MARIE  GRUBBE  159 

in  the  next  instant  it  is  whirled,  thin  and  light  and  blue,  up 
through  the  flue,  with  the  flames  calling  after  it,  leaping  and 
darting,  and  sending  sputtering  sparks  by  the  handful  right 
in  its  heels.  Then  the  fire  began  to  burn  in  good  earnest. 
With  grunts  of  pleasure  it  spread  over  glowing  coals  and 
embers,  boiled  and  seethed  with  delight  in  the  innermost 
marrow  of  the  white  birch  wood,  buzzed  and  purred  like  a 
tawny  cat,  and  licked  caressingly  the  noses  of  blackening 
knots  and  smouldering  chunks  of  wood. 

Warm  and  pleasant  and  luminous  the  breath  of  the  fire 
streamed  through  the  little  room.  Like  a  fluttering  fan  of 
light  it  played  over  the  parquet  floor  and  chased  the  peace- 
ful dusk  which  hid  in  tremulous  shadows  to  the  right  and 
the  left  behind  twisted  chair-legs,  or  shrank  into  corners, 
lay  thin  and  long  in  the  shelter  of  mouldings,  or  flattened 
itself  under  the  large  clothes-press. 

Suddenly  the  chimney  seemed  to  suck  up  the  light  and 
heat  with  a  roar.  Darkness  spread  boldly  across  the  floor 
on  every  board  and  square,  to  the  very  fire,  but  the  next 
moment  the  light  leaped  back  again  and  sent  the  dusk  fly- 
ing to  all  sides,  with  the  light  pursuing  it,  up  the  walls  and 
doors,  above  the  brass  latch.  Safety  nowhere!  The  dusk 
sat  crouching  against  the  wall,  up  under  the  ceiling,  like 
a  cat  in  a  high  branch,  with  the  light  scampering  below, 
back  and  forth  like  a  dog,  leaping,  running  at  the  foot  of 
the  tree.  Not  even  among  the  flagons  and  tumblers  on  the 
top  of  the  press  could  the  darkness  be  undisturbed,  for  red 
ruby-glasses,  blue  goblets,  and  green  Rhenish  wineglasses 
lit  iridescent  fires  to  help  the  light  search  them  out. 

The  wind  blew  and  the  darkness  fell  outside,  but  within 
the  fire  glowed,  the  light  played,  and  Marie  Grubbe  was 
singing.  Now  and  again,  she  would  murmur  snatches  of  the 


i6o  MARIE  GRUBBE 

words  as  they  came  to  her  mind,  then  again  hum  the  melody 
alone.  Her  lute  was  in  her  hand,  but  she  was  not  playing  it, 
only  touching  the  strings  sometimes  and  calling  out  a  few 
clear,  long-sounding  notes.  It  was  one  of  those  pleasant 
little  pensive  songs  that  make  the  cushions  softer  and  the 
room  warmer;  one  of  those  gently  flowing  airs  that  seem 
to  sing  themselves  in  their  indolent  wistfulness,  while  they 
give  the  voice  a  delicious  roundness  and  fullness  of  tone. 
Marie  was  sitting  in  the  light  from  the  fire,  and  its  beams 
played  around  her,  while  she  sang  in  careless  enjoyment, 
as  if  caressing  herself  with  her  own  voice. 

The  little  door  opened,  and  Ulrik  Frederik  bent  his  tall 
form  to  enter.  Marie  stopped  singing  instantly. 

"Ah,  madam!"  exclaimed  Ulrik  Frederik  in  a  tone  of 
gentle  remonstrance,  making  a  gesture  of  appeal,  as  he 
came  up  to  her.  "  Had  I  known  that  you  would  allow  my 
presence  to  incommode  you — " 

"No,truly,  I  was  but  singing  to  keep  my  dreams  awake." 

"Pleasant  dreams?"  he  asked,  bending  over  the  fire- 
dogs  before  the  grate  and  warming  his  hands  on  the  bright 
copper  balls. 

"  Dreams  of  youth,"  replied  Marie,  passing  her  hand 
over  the  strings  of  the  lute. 

"Ay,  that  was  ever  the  way  of  old  age,"  and  he  smiled 
at  her. 

Marie  was  silent  a  moment,  then  suddenly  spoke :  "  One 
may  be  full  young  and  yet  have  old  dreams." 

"  How  sweet  the  odor  of  musk  in  here !  But  was  my 
humble  person  along  in  these  ancient  dreams,  madam?  — 
if  I  may  make  so  bold  as  to  ask." 

"Ah,  no!" 

"And  yet  there  was  a  time — " 


MARIE  GRUBBE  i6i 

"Among  all  other  times." 

"  Ay,among  all  other  times  there  was  once  a  wondrously 
fair  time  when  I  was  exceeding  dear  to  you.  Do  you  bring 
to  mind  a  certain  hour  in  the  twilight,  a  sennight  or  so 
after  our  nuptials?  'T  was  storming  and  snowing — " 

"Even  as  now." 

"And  you  were  sitting  before  the  fire — " 

"Even  as  now." 

"Ay,  and  I  was  lying  at  your  feet,  and  your  dear  hands 
were  playing  with  my  hair." 

"Yes,  then  you  loved  me." 

*' Oh,  even  as  now!  And  you — you  bent  down  over 
me  and  wept  till  the  tears  streamed  down  your  face,  and 
you  kissed  me  and  looked  at  me  with  such  tender  earnest- 
ness, it  seemed  you  were  saying  a  prayer  for  me  in  your 
heart,  and  then  all  of  a  sudden — do  you  remember?  — 
you  bit  my  neck." 

"Ah,  merciful  God,  what  love  I  did  bear  to  you,  my 
lord!  When  I  heard  the  clanging  of  your  spurs  on  the 
steps  the  blood  pounded  in  my  ears,  and  I  trembled  from 
head  to  foot,  and  my  hands  were  cold  as  ice.  Then  when 
you  came  in  and  pressed  me  in  your  arms — " 

"  De  grace^  madam ! " 

"Why,  it 's  naught  but  dead  memories  of  an  amour  that 
is  long  since  extinguished." 

"Alas,  extinguished,  madam?  Nay,  it  smoulders  hotter 
than  ever." 

"Ah,  no,  't  is  covered  by  the  cold  ashes  of  too  many 
days." 

"  But  it  shall  rise  again  from  the  ashes  as  the  bird  Phenix, 
more  glorious  and  fiery  than  before  —  pray,  shall  it  not?" 

"No,  love  is  like  a  tender  plant;  when  the  night  frost 


i62  MARIE  GRUBBE 

touches  its  heart,  it  dies  from  the  blossom  down  to  the 
root." 

"No,  love  is  like  the  herb  named  the  rose  of  Jericho.  In 
the  dry  months  it  withers  and  curls  up,  but  when  there  is  a 
soft  and  balmy  night,  with  a  heavy  fall  of  dew,  all  its  leaves 
will  unfold  again,  greener  and  fresher  than  ever  before." 

"  It  may  be  so.  There  are  many  kinds  of  love  in  the 
world." 

"Truly  there  are, and  ours  was  such  a  love." 

"That  yours  was  such  you  tell  me  now,  but  mine  — 
never,  never! 

*'Then  you  have  never  loved." 

"  Never  loved  ?  Now  I  shall  tell  you  how  1  have  loved. 
It  was  at  Frederiksborg — " 

"  Oh,  madam,  you  have  no  mercy ! " 

"No,  no,  that  is  not  it  at  all.  It  was  at  Frederiksborg. 
Alas,  you  little  know  what  I  suffered  there.  I  saw  that  your 
love  was  not  as  it  had  been.  Oh,  as  a  mother  watches  over 
her  sick  child  and  marks  every  little  change,  so  I  kept  watch 
over  your  love  with  fear  and  trembling,  and  when  I  saw 
in  your  cold  looks  how  it  had  paled,  and  felt  in  your  kisses 
how  feeble  was  its  pulse,  it  seemed  to  me  I  must  die  with 
anguish.  I  wept  for  this  love  through  long  nights ;  I  prayed 
for  it,  as  if  it  had  been  the  dearly  loved  child  of  my  heart 
that  was  dying  by  inches.  I  cast  about  for  aid  and  advice 
in  my  trouble  and  for  physics  to  cure  your  sick  love,  and 
whatever  secret  potions  I  had  heard  of,  such  as  love-phil- 
tres, I  mixed  them,  betwixt  hope  and  fear,  in  your  morn- 
ing draught  and  your  supper  wine.  I  laid  out  your  breast- 
cloth  under  three  waxing  moons  and  read  the  marriage 
psalm  over  it,  and  on  your  bedstead  I  first  painted  with  my 
own  blood  thirteen  hearts  in  a  cross,  but  all  to  no  avail, 


MARIE  GRUBBE  163 

my  lord,  for  your  love  was  sick  unto  death.  Faith,  that  is 
the  way  you  were  loved." 

"No,  Marie,  my  love  is  not  dead,  it  is  risen  again.  Hear 
me, dear  heart, hear  me!  for  I  have  been  stricken  with  blind- 
ness and  with  a  mad  distemper,  but  now,  Marie,  I  kneel 
at  your  feet,  and  look,  I  woo  you  again  with  prayers  and  be- 
seechings.  Alack,  my  love  has  been  like  a  wilful  child,  but 
now  it  is  grown  to  man's  estate.  Pray  give  yourself  trust- 
ingly to  its  arms,  and  I  swear  to  you  by  the  cross  and  the 
honor  of  a  gentleman  that  it  will  never  let  you  go  again." 

"  Peace,  peace,  what  help  is  in  that ! " 

"  Pray,  pray  believe  me,  Marie ! " 

"By  the  living  God,  I  believe  you.  There  is  no  shred 
nor  thread  of  doubt  in  my  soul.  I  believe  you  fully,  I  be- 
lieve that  your  love  is  great  and  strong,  but  mine  you  have 
strangled  with  your  own  hands.  It  is  a  corpse,  and  however 
loudly  your  heart  may  call,  you  can  never  wake  it  again." 

"Say  not  so,  Marie,  forthose  of  your  sex  —  I  know  there 
are  among  you  those  who  when  they  love  a  man,  even 
though  he  spurn  them  with  his  foot,  come  back  ever  and 
ever  again;  for  their  love  is  proof  against  all  wounds." 

"'T  is  so  indeed,  my  lord,  and  I  —  I  am  such  a  woman, 
I  would  have  you  know,  but  3'ou — are  not  the  right  kind 
of  man." 

May  God  in  his  mercy  keep  you,  my  dearly  beloved  sister, 
and  be  to  you  a  good  and  generous  giver  of  all  those  things 
which  are  requisite  and  necessary,  as  well  for  the  body  as 
for  the  soul,  that  I  wish  you  from  my  heart. 

To  you,  my  dearly  beloved  sister,  my  one  faithful  friend 
from  the  time  of  my  childhood,  will  I  now  relate  what 
fine  fruits  I  have  of  my  elevation,  which  may  it  be  cursed 


i64  MARIE  GRUBBE 

from  the  day  it  began;  for  it  has,  God  knows,  brought  me 
naught  but  trouble  and  tribulation  in  brimming  goblets. 

Ay,  it  was  an  elevation  for  the  worse,  as  you,  my  dearly 
beloved  sister,  shall  now  hear,  and  as  is  probably  known 
to  you  in  part.  For  it  cannot  fail  that  you  must  have 
learned  from  your  dear  husband  how,  even  at  the  time  of 
our  dwelling  in  Sjælland,  there  was  a  coolness  between  me 
and  my  noble  lord  and  spouse.  Now  here  at  Aggershus, 
matters  have  in  noway  mended, and  he  has  used  me  soscur- 
vily  that  it  is  past  all  belief,  but  is  what  I  might  have  looked 
for  in  so  dainty  2.  junker.  Not  that  I  care  a  rush  about  his 
filthy  gallantries;  it  is  all  one  to  me,  and  he  may  run  amuck 
with  the  hangman's  wife,  if  so  be  his  pleasure.  All  I  ask  is 
that  he  do  not  come  too  near  me  with  his  tricks,  but  that 
is  precisely  what  he  is  now  doing,  and  in  such  manner  that 
one  might  fain  wonder  whether  he  were  stricken  with  mad- 
ness or  possessed  of  the  devil.  The  beginning  of  it  was  on 
a  day  when  he  came  to  me  with  fair  words  and  fine  prom- 
ises and  would  have  all  be  as  before  between  us,  whereas  I 
feel  for  him  naught  but  loathing  and  contempt, and  told  him 
in  plain  words  that  I  held  myself  far  too  good  for  him.  Then 
hell  broke  loose,  for  wenns  de  Duvel  friert^  as  the  saying 
is,  macht  er  sein  H'olle  gliihn^  and  he  made  it  hot  for  me  by 
dragging  into  the  castle  swarms  of  loose  women  and  filthy 
jades  and  entertaining  them  with  food  and  drink  in  abun- 
dance, ay,  with  costly  sweetmeats  and  expensive  stand- 
dishes  as  at  any  royal  banquet.  And  for  this  my  flowered 
damask  tablecloths,  which  I  have  gotten  after  our  blessed 
mother,  and  my  silk  bolsters  with  the  fringes  were  to  have 
been  laid  out,  but  that  did  not  come  to  pass,  inasmuch  as  I 
put  them  all  under  lock  and  key,  and  he  had  to  go  borrowing 
in  the  town  for  wherewithal  to  deck  both  board  and  bench. 


MARIE  GRUBBE  165 

My  own  dearly  beloved  sister,  1  will  no  longer  fatigue 
you  with  tales  of  this  vile  company,  but  is  it  not  shame- 
ful that  such  trulls,  who  if  they  were  rightly  served  should 
have  the  lash  laid  on  their  back  at  the  public  whipping-post, 
now  are  queening  it  in  the  halls  of  his  Majesty  the  King's 
Viceroy?  I  say,  'tis  so  unheard  of  and  so  infamous  that  if 
it  were  to  come  to  the  ears  of  his  Majesty,  as  with  all  my 
heart  and  soul  I  wish  that  it  may  come,  he  would  talk  to 
mein  guten  Ulrik  Friederich  in  such  terms  as  would  give  him 
but  little  joy  to  hear.  The  finest  of  all  his  tricks  I  have  yet 
told  you  nothing  of,  and  it  is  quite  new,  for  it  happened  only 
the  other  day  that  I  sent  for  a  tradesman  to  bring  me  some 
Brabantian  silk  lace  that  I  thought  to  put  around  the  hem  of 
a  sack,  but  the  man  made  answer  that  when  I  sent  the  money 
he  would  bring  the  goods,  for  the  Viceroy  had  forbidden  him 
to  sell  me  anything  on  credit.  The  same  word  came  from 
the  milliner,  who  had  been  sent  for,  so  it  would  appear  that 
he  has  stopped  my  credit  in  the  entire  city,  although  I  have 
brought  to  his  estate  thousands  and  thousands  of  rix-dollars. 
No  more  to-day.  May  we  commit  all  unto  the  Lord,  and 
may  He  give  me  ever  good  tidings  of  you. 

Ever  your  faithful  sister, 

MARIE  GRUBBE. 

At  Aggershus  Castle,  12  December,  1665. 

The  Honorable  Mistress  Anne  Marie  Grubbe,  Styge  Hugh's,  Magis- 
trate of  Laaland,  my  dearly  beloved  sister,  graciously  to  hand. 

God  in  his  mercy  keep  you,  my  dearest  sister,  now  and  for- 
ever, is  my  wish  from  a  true  heart,  and  I  pray  for  you  that 
you  may  be  of  good  cheer  and  not  let  yourself  be  utterly 
cast  down,  for  we  have  all  our  allotted  portion  of  sorrow, 
and  we  swim  and  bathe  in  naught  but  misery. 


i66  MARIE  GRUBBE 

Your  letter,  M.  D.  S.,  came  to  hand  safe  and  unbroken 
in  every  way,  and  thence  I  have  learned  with  a  heavy  heart 
what  shame  and  dishonor  your  husband  is  heaping  upon 
you,  which  it  is  a  grievous  wrong  in  his  Majesty's  Viceroy 
to  behave  as  he  behaves.  Nevertheless,  it  behooves  you  not 
to  be  hasty,  my  duck;  for  you  have  cause  for  patience  in 
that  high  position  in  which  you  have  been  placed,  which  it 
were  not  well  to  wreck,  but  which  it  is  fitting  you  should 
preserve  with  all  diligence.  Even  though  your  husband  con- 
sumes much  wealth  on  his  pleasures,  yet  is  it  of  his  own 
he  wastes,  while  my  rogue  of  a  husband  has  made  away 
with  his  and  mine  too.  Truly  it  is  a  pity  to  see  a  man  who 
should  guard  what  God  hath  entrusted  to  us  instead  scat- 
tering and  squandering  it.  If  't  were  but  the  will  of  God 
to  part  me  from  him,  by  whatever  means  it  might  be,  that 
would  be  the  greatest  boon  to  me,  miserable  woman,  for 
which  I  could  never  be  sufficiently  thankful;  and  we  might 
as  well  be  parted,  since  we  have  not  lived  together  for  up- 
ward of  a  year,  for  which  may  God  be  praised,  and  would 
that  it  might  last!  So  you  see,  M.  D.  S.,  that  neither  is  my 
bed  deckedwithsilk.  But  you  must  have  faith  that  your  hus- 
band will  come  to  his  senses  in  time  and  cease  to  waste  his 
goods  on  wanton  hussies  and  filthy  rabble,  and  inasmuch 
as  his  office  gives  him  a  large  income,  you  must  not  let 
your  heart  be  troubled  with  his  wicked  wastefulness  nor 
by  his  unkindness.  God  will  help,  I  firmly  trust.  Farewell, 
my  duck!  I  bid  you  a  thousand  good-nights. 

Your  faithful  sister  while  I  live, 

ANNE  MARIE  GRUBBE. 

At  Vang,  6  February,  1666. 

Madam  Gyldenlove,  my  good  friend  and  sister,  written  in  all  loving 

kindness. 


MARIE  GRUBBE  167 

May  God  in  his  mercy  keep  you,  my  dearly  beloved  sister, 
and  be  to  you  a  good  and  generous  giver  of  all  those  things 
which  are  requisite  and  necessary,  as  well  for  the  body  as 
for  the  soul,  that  I  wish  you  from  my  heart. 

My  dearly  beloved  sister,  the  old  saying  that  none  is  so 
mad  but  he  has  a  glimmer  of  sense  between  St.  John  and 
Paulinus,no  longer  holds  good, for  my  mad  lord  and  spouse 
is  no  more  sensible  than  he  was.  In  truth,  he  is  tenfold,  nay 
athousandfold  more  frenzied  than  before, and  that  whereof 
I  wrote  you  was  but  as  child's  play  to  what  has  now  come 
to  pass,  which  is  beyond  all  belief.  Dearest  sister,  I  would 
have  you  know  that  he  has  been  to  Copenhagen ,  and  thence 
— oh,  fie,  most  horrid  shame  and  outrage!  —  he  has  brought 
one  of  his  o\d  canaille  women  named  Karen,  whom  he  forth- 
with lodged  in  the  castle,  and  she  is  set  over  everything  and 
rules  everything,  while  I  am  let  stand  behind  the  door.  But, 
my  dear  sister,  you  must  now  do  me  the  favor  to  inquire  of 
our  dear  father  whether  he  will  take  my  part,  if  so  be  it  that 
I  can  make  my  escape  from  here,  as  he  surely  must,  for 
none  can  behold  my  unhappy  state  without  pitying  me,  and 
what  I  suffer  is  so  past  all  endurance  that  I  think  I  should 
but  be  doing  right  in  freeing  myself  from  it.  It  is  no  longer 
ago  than  the  Day  of  the  Assumption  of  Our  Lady  that  I 
was  walking  in  our  orchard,  and  when  I  came  in  again,  the 
door  of  my  chamber  was  bolted  from  within.  I  asked  the 
meaning  of  this  and  was  told  that  Karen  had  taken  for  her 
ov/n  that  chamber  and  the  one  next  to  it,  and  my  bed  was 
moved  up  into  the  western  parlor,  which  is  cold  as  a  church 
when  the  wind  is  in  that  quarter,  full  of  draughts,  and  the 
floor  quite  rough  and  has  even  great  holes  in  it.  But  if 
I  were  to  relate  at  length  all  the  insults  that  are  heaped 
upon  me  here,  it  would  be  as  long  as  any  Lenten  sermon. 


i68  MARIE  GRUBBE 

and  if  it  is  to  go  on  much  longer,  my  head  is  like  to  burst. 
May  the  Lord  keep  us  and  send  me  good  tidings  of  you. 
Ever  your  faithful  sister, 

MARIE  GRUBBE. 

The  Honorable  Mistress  Anne  Marie  Grubbe,  Sti  Hogh's,  Magistrate 
of  Laaland,  my  dearly  beloved  sister,  graciously  to  hand. 

Ulrik  Frederik,  if  the  truth  were  told,  was  as  tired  of  the 
state  of  affairs  at  the  castle  as  Marie  Grubbe  was.  He 
had  been  used  to  refining  more  on  his  dissipations.  They 
were  sorry  boon  companions,  these  poor,  common  officers 
in  Norway,  and  their  soldiers'  courtesans  were  not  to  be 
endured  for  long.  Karen  Fiol  was  the  only  one  who  was 
not  made  up  of  coarseness  and  vulgarity,  and  even  her  he 
would  rather  bid  good-by  to-day  than  to-morrow. 

In  his  chagrin  at  being  repulsed  by  Marie  Grubbe,  he 
had  admitted  these  people  into  his  company,  and  for  a 
while  they  amused  him,  but  when  the  whole  thing  began 
to  pall  and  seem  rather  disgusting,  and  when  furthermore 
he  felt  some  faint  stirrings  of  remorse,  he  had  to  justify 
himself  by  pretending  that  such  means  had  been  necessary. 
He  actually  made  himself  believe  that  he  had  been  pursu- 
ing a  plan  in  order  to  bring  Marie  Grubbe  back  repentant. 
Unfortunately,  her  penitence  did  not  seem  to  be  forth- 
coming, and  so  he  had  recourse  to  harsher  measures  in  the 
hope  that,  by  making  her  life  as  miserable  as  possible,  he 
would  beat  down  her  resistance.  That  she  had  really  ceased 
to  love  him  he  never  believed  for  a  moment.  He  was  con- 
vinced that  in  her  heart  she  longed  to  throw  herself  into  his 
arms,  though  she  used  his  returning  love  as  a  good  chance 
to  avenge  herself  for  his  faithlessness.  Nor  did  he  begrudge 
her  this  revenge  j  he  was  pleased  that  she  wanted  it,  if  she 


MARIE  GRUBBE  169 

had  only  not  dragged  it  out  so  long.  He  was  getting  bored 
in  this  barbarous  land  of  Norway! 

He  had  a  sneaking  feeling  that  it  might  have  been  wiser 
to  have  let  Karen  Fiol  stay  in  Copenhagen,  but  he  simply 
could  not  endure  the  others  any  longer;  moreover,  jealousy 
was  a  powerful  ally,  and  Marie  Grubbe  had  once  been  jeal- 
ous of  Karen,  that  he  knew. 

Time  passed,  and  still  Marie  Grubbe  did  not  come.  He 
began  to  doubt  that  she  ever  would,  and  his  love  grew  with 
his  doubt.  Something  of  the  excitement  of  a  game  or  a  chase 
had  entered  into  their  relation.  It  was  with  an  anxious  mind 
and  with  a  calculating  fear  that  he  heaped  upon  her  one 
mortification  after  another,  and  he  waited  in  suspense  for 
even  the  faintest  sign  that  his  quarry  was  being  driven  into 
the  right  track,  but  nothing  happened. 

Ah,  at  last!  At  last  something  came  to  pass,  and  he  was 
certain  that  it  was  the  sign,  the  very  sign  he  had  been  wait- 
ing for.  One  day  when  Karen  had  been  more  than  ordina- 
rily impudent,  Marie  Grubbe  took  a  good  strong  bridle  rein 
in  her  hand,  walked  through  the  house  to  the  room  where 
Karen  just  then  was  taking  her  after-dinner  nap,  fastened 
the  door  from  within,  and  gave  the  dumbfounded  strumpet 
a  good  beating  with  the  heavy  strap,  then  went  quietly  back 
to  the  western  parlor,  past  the  speechless  servants  who  had 
come  running  at  the  sound  of  Karen's  screams. 

Ulrik  Frederik  was  downtown  when  it  happened.  Karen 
sent  a  messenger  to  him  at  once,  but  he  did  not  hurry,  and 
it  was  late  afternoon  before  Karen,  anxiously  waiting,  heard 
his  horse  in  the  courtyard.  She  ran  down  to  meet  him,  but 
he  put  her  aside,  quietly  and  firmly,  and  went  straight  up 
to  Marie  Grubbe. 

The  door  was  ajar — then  she  must  be  out.  He  stuck  his 


lyo  MARIE  GRUBBE 

head  in,  sure  of  finding  the  room  empty,  but  she  was  there, 
sitting  at  the  window  asleep.  He  stepped  in  as  softly  and 
carefully  as  he  could;  for  he  was  not  quite  sober. 

The  low  September  sun  was  pouring  a  stream  of  yellow 
and  golden  light  through  the  room,  lending  color  and  rich- 
ness to  its  poor  tints.  The  plastered  walls  took  on  the  white- 
ness of  swans,  the  brown  timbered  ceiling  glowed  as  cop- 
per, and  the  faded  curtains  around  the  bed  were  changed  to 
wine-red  folds  and  purple  draperies.  The  room  was  flooded 
with  light;  even  in  the  shadows  it  gleamed  as  through  a 
shimmering  mist  of  autumn  yellow  leaves.  It  spun  a  halo 
of  gold  around  Marie  Grubbe's  head  and  kissed  her  white 
forehead,  but  her  eyes  and  mouth  were  in  deep  shadow  cast 
by  the  yellowing  apple-tree  which  lifted  to  the  window 
branches  red  with  fruit. 

She  was  asleep,  sitting  in  a  chair,  her  hands  folded  in  her 
lap.  Ulrik  Frederik  stole  up  to  her  on  tiptoe,  and  the  glory 
faded  as  he  came  between  her  and  the  window. 

He  scanned  her  closely.  She  was  paler  than  before.  How 
kind  and  gentle  she  looked,  as  she  sat  there,  her  head  bent 
back,  her  lips  slightly  parted,  her  white  throat  uncovered 
and  bare!  He  could  see  the  pulse  throbbing  on  both  sides 
of  her  neck,  right  under  the  little  brown  birthmark.  His 
eyes  followed  the  line  of  the  firm,  rounded  shoulder  under 
the  close-fitting  silk,  down  the  slender  arm  to  the  white, 
passive  hand.  And  that  hand  was  his!  He  saw  the  fingers 
closing  over  the  brown  strap,  the  white  blue-veined  arm 
growing  tense  and  bright,  then  relaxing  and  softening  after 
the  blow  it  dealt  Karen's  poor  back.  He  saw  her  jealous  eyes 
gleaming  with  pleasure,  her  angry  lips  curling  in  a  cruel 
smile  at  the  thought  that  she  was  blotting  out  kiss  after 
kiss  with  the  leather  rein.  And  she  was  his !  He  had  been 


MARIE  GRUBBE  171 

harsh  and  stern  and  ruthless;  he  had  suffered  these  dear 
hands  to  be  wrung  with  anguish  and  these  dear  lips  to  open 
in  sighing. 

His  eyes  took  on  a  moist  lustre  at  the  thought,  and  he 
felt  suffused  with  the  easy,  indolent  pity  of  a  drunken  man. 
He  stood  there  staring  in  sottish  sentimentality,  until  the 
rich  flood  of  sunlight  had  shrunk  to  a  thin  bright  streak 
high  among  the  dark  rafters  of  the  ceiling. 

Then  Marie  Grubbe  awoke. 

*'You!"  she  almost  screamed,  as  she  jumped  up  and 
.darted  back  so  quickly  that  the  chair  tumbled  along  the 
floor. 

"Marie!"  said  Ulrik  Frederik  as  tenderly  as  he  could, 
and  held  out  his  hands  pleadingly  to  her. 

*'What  brings  you  here?  Have  you  come  to  complain 
of  the  beating  your  harlot  got?" 

"No,  no,  Marie;  let 's  be  friends — good  friends!" 

"You  are  drunk,"  she  said  coldly,  turning  away  from 
him. 

"Ay,  Marie,  I  'm  drunk  with  love  of  you — I  'm  drunk 
and  dizzy  with  your  beauty,  my  heart's  darling." 

"Yes, truly,  so  dizzy  that  your  eyesight  has  failed  you, 
and  you  have  taken  others  for  me." 

"Marie,  Marie,  leave  your  jealousy  ! " 

She  made  a  contemptuous  gesture  as  if  to  brush  him 
aside. 

"Indeed,  Marie,  you  were  jealous.  You  betrayed  your- 
self when  you  took  that  bridle  rein,  you  know.  But  now 
let  the  whole  filthy  rabble  be  forgotten  as  dead  and  given 
over  to  the  devil.  Come,  come,  cease  playing  unkind  to  me 
as  I  have  played  the  faithless  rogue  to  you  with  all  these 
make-believe  pleasures  and  gallantries.  We  do  nothing  but 


172  MARIE  GRUBBE 

prepare  each  other  a  pit  of  hell,  whereas  we  might  have 
an  Eden  of  delight.  Come,  whatever  you  desire,  it  shall  be 
yours.  Would  you  dance  in  silks  as  thick  as  chamlet,  would 
you  have  pearls  in  strings  as  long  as  your  hair,  you  shall 
have  them,  and  rings,  and  tissue  of  gold  in  whole  webs, 
and  plumes,  and  precious  stones,  whatever  you  will  — 
nothing  is  too  good  to  be  worn  by  you." 

He  tried  to  put  his  arm  around  her  waist,  but  she  caught 
his  wrist  and  held  him  away  from  her. 

"Ulrik  Frederik,"  she  said,  "let  me  tell  you  something. 
If  you  could  wrap  your  love  in  ermine  and  marten,  if  you 
could  clothe  it  in  sable  and  crown  it  with  gold,  ay,  give  it 
shoes  of  purest  diamond,  I  would  cast  it  away  from  me  like 
filth  and  dung,  for  I  hold  it  less  than  the  ground  I  tread 
with  my  feet.  There  's  no  drop  of  my  blood  that 's  fond  of 
you,  no  fibre  of  my  flesh  that  does  n't  cry  out  upon  you. 
Do  you  hear?  There's  no  corner  of  my  soul  where  you  're 
not  called  names.  Understand  me  aright!  If  I  could  free 
your  body  from  the  pangs  of  mortal  disease  and  your  soul 
from  the  fires  of  hell  by  being  as  yours,  I  would  not  do  it." 

"Yes,  you  would,  woman,  so  don't  deny  it!" 

"No,  and  no,  and  more  than  no!" 

"Then  begone!  Out  of  my  sight  in  the  accursed  name 
of  hell!" 

He  was  white  as  the  wall  and  shook  in  every  limb.  His 
voice  sounded  hoarse  and  strange,  and  he  beat  the  air  like 
a  madman. 

"Take  your  foot  from  my  path !  Take  your — take  your 
— take  your  foot  from  my  path,  or  I'll  split  your  skull !  My 
blood's  lusting  to  kill,  and  I  'm  seeing  red.  Begone — out 
of  the  land  and  dominion  of  Norway,  and  hell-fire  go  with 
you!  Begone — " 


MARIE  GRUBBE  173 

For  a  moment,  Marie  stood  looking  at  him  in  horror, 
then  ran  as  fast  as  she  could  out  of  the  room  and  away  from 
the  castle. 

When  the  door  slammed  after  her,  Ulrik  Frederik  seized 
the  chair  in  which  she  had  been  sitting  when  he  came  in 
and  hurled  it  out  of  the  window,  then  caught  the  curtains 
from  the  bed  and  tore  the  worn  stuff  into  shreds  and  tatters, 
storming  round  the  room  all  the  while.  He  threw  himself  on 
the  floor  and  crawled  around,  snarling  like  a  wild  beast,  and 
pounding  with  his  fists  till  the  knuckles  were  bloody.  Ex- 
hausted at  last,  he  crept  over  to  the  bed  and  flung  himself 
face  downward  in  the  pillows,  called  Marie  tender  names, 
and  wept  and  sobbed  and  cursed  her,  then  again  began  to 
talk  in  low,  wheedling  tones,  as  if  he  were  fondling  her. 

That  same  night  Marie  Grubbe,  for  fair  words  and  good 
pay,  got  a  skipper  to  sail  with  her  to  Denmark. 

The  following  day  Ulrik  Frederik  turned  Karen  Fiol 
out  of  the  castle,  and  a  few  days  later  he  himself  left  for 
Copenhagen. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

ONE  fine  day,  Erik  Grubbe  was  surprised  to  see 
Madam  Gyldenlove  driving  in  to  Tjele.  He  knew  at 
once  that  something  was  wrong,  since  she  came  thus  with- 
out servants  or  anything,  and  when  he  learned  the  facts, 
it  was  no  warm  welcome  he  gave  her.  In  truth,  he  was 
so  angry  that  he  went  away,  slamming  the  door  after  him, 
and  did  not  appear  again  that  day.  When  he  had  slept  on 
the  matter,  however,  he  grew  more  civil,  and  even  treated 
his  daughter  with  an  almost  respectful  affection,  while  his 
manner  took  on  some  of  the  formal  graces  of  the  old  cour- 
tier.  It  had  occurred  to  him  that,  after  all,  there  was  no 
great  harm  done,  for  even  though  there  had  been  some  little 
disagreement  between  the  young  people,  Marie  was  still 
Madam  Gyldenlove,  and  no  doubt  matters  could  easily  be 
brought  back  into  the  old  rut  again. 

To  be  sure,  Marie  was  clamoring  for  a  divorce  and 
would  not  hear  of  a  reconciliation,  but  it  would  have  been 
unreasonable  to  expect  anything  else  from  her,  in  the  first 
heat  of  her  anger,  with  all  her  memories  like  sore  bruises 
and  gaping  wounds,  so  he  did  not  lay  much  stress  upon 
that.  Time  would  cure  it,  he  felt  sure. 

There  was  another  circumstance  from  which  he  hoped 
much.  Marie  had  come  from  Aggershus  almost  naked, 
without  clothes  or  jewels,  and  she  would  soon  miss  the 
luxury  which  she  had  learned  to  look  upon  as  a  matter  of 
course.  Even  the  plain  food  and  poor  service,  the  whole 
simple  mode  of  living  at  Tjele,  would  have  its  effect  on 
her  by  making  her  long  for  what  she  had  left.  On  the  other 
hand,  Ulrik  Frederik,  however  angry  he  might  be,  could 
not  well  think  of  a  divorce.  His  financial  affairs  were  hardly 


MARIE  GRUBBE  175 

in  such  a  state  that  he  could  give  up  Marie's  fortune;  for 
twelve  thousand  rix-dollars  was  a  large  sum  in  ready 
money,  and  gold,  landed  estates,  and  manorial  rights  were 
hard  to  part  with  when  once  acquired. 

For  upward  of  six  months  all  went  well  at  Tjele.  Marie 
felt  a  sense  of  comfort  in  the  quiet  country  place,  where 
day  after  day  passed  all  empty  of  events.  The  monotony 
was  something  new  to  her,  and  she  drank  in  the  deep  peace 
with  dreamy,  passive  enjoyment.  When  she  thought  of  the 
past,  it  seemed  to  her  like  a  weary  struggle,  a  restless  press- 
ing onward  without  a  goal,  in  the  glare  of  smarting,  sting- 
ing light,  deafened  by  intolerable  noise  and  hubbub.  A 
delicious  feeling  of  shelter  and  calm  stole  over  her,  a  sense 
of  undisturbed  rest  in  a  grateful  shadow,  in  a  sweet  and 
friendly  silence,  and  she  liked  to  deepen  the  peace  of  her 
refuge  by  picturing  to  herself  the  world  outside,  where 
people  were  still  striving  and  struggling,  while  she  had,  as 
it  were,  slipped  behind  life  and  found  a  safe  little  haven, 
where  none  could  discover  her  or  bring  unrest  into  her 
sweet  twilight  solitude. 

As  time  went  on,  however,  the  silence  became  op- 
pressive, the  peace  dull,  and  the  shadow  dark.  She  began  to 
listen  for  sounds  of  living  life  from  without.  So  it  was  not 
unwelcome  to  her  when  Erik  Grubbe  proposed  a  change. 
He  wished  her  to  reside  at  Kalo  manor,  the  property  of  her 
husband,  and  he  pointed  out  to  her  that  as  Ulrik  Frederik 
had  her  entire  fortune  in  his  possession  and  yet  did  not  send 
anything  for  her  maintenance,  it  was  but  fair  she  should  be 
supported  from  his  estate.  There  she  would  be  in  clover; 
she  might  have  a  houseful  of  servants  and  live  in  the  elegant 
and  costly  fashion  to  which  she  was  accustomed,  far  better 
than  at  Tjele,  which  was  quite  too  poor  for  her.  Moreover, 


176  MARIE  GRUBBE 

the  King,  as  a  part  of  his  wedding  gift,  had  settled  upon  her, 
in  case  of  Ulrik  Frederik's  death,  an  income  equal  to  that 
at  which  Kalo  was  rated,  and  in  doing  so  he  had  clearly  had 
Kalo  in  mind,  since  it  was  conveyed  to  Ulrik  Frederik 
six  months  after  their  marriage.  If  they  should  not  patch 
up  their  difference,  Ulrik  Frederik  would  very  likely  have 
to  give  up  to  her  the  estate  intended  for  her  dowager  seat, 
and  she  might  as  well  become  familiar  with  it.  It  would 
be  well,  too,  that  Ulrik  Frederik  should  get  used  to  know- 
ing her  in  possession  of  it;  he  would  then  the  more  readily 
resign  it  to  her. 

What  Erik  Grubbe  really  had  in  mind  was  to  rid  himself 
of  the  expense  of  keeping  Marie  at  Tjele  and  to  make  the 
breach  between  Ulrik  Frederik  and  his  wife  less  evident  in 
the  eyes  of  the  world.  It  was  at  least  a  step  toward  recon- 
ciliation, and  there  was  no  knowing  what  it  might  lead  to. 

So  Marie  went  to  Kalo,  but  she  did  not  live  in  the  style 
she  had  pictured  to  herself,  for  Ulrik  Frederik  had  given 
his  bailiff,  Johan  Utrecht,  orders  to  receive  and  entertain 
Madam  Gyldenlove,  but  not  to  give  her  a  stiver  in  ready 
money.  Besides  Kalo  was,  if  possible,  even  more  tiresome 
than  Tjele,  and  Marie  would  probably  not  have  remained 
there  long,  if  she  had  not  had  a  visitor  who  was  soon  to 
become  more  than  a  visitor  to  her. 

His  name  was  Sti  Hogh. 

Since  the  night  of  the  ballet  in  Frederiksborg  Park, 
Marie  had  often  thought  of  her  brother-in-law, and  always 
with  a  warm  sense  of  gratitude.  Many  a  time  at  Aggershus, 
when  she  had  been  wounded  in  some  particularly  galling 
manner,  the  thought  of  Sti's  reverent,  silently  adoring 
homage  had  comforted  her,  and  he  treated  her  in  precisely 
the  same  way  now  that  she  was  forgotten  and  forsaken  as 


MARIE  GRUBBE  177 

in  the  days  of  her  glory.  There  was  the  same  flattering 
hopelessness  in  his  mien  and  the  same  humble  adoration 
in  his  eyes. 

He  would  never  remain  at  Kalo  for  more  than  two  or 
three  days  at  a  time;  then  he  would  leave  for  a  week's  visit 
in  the  neighborhood, and  Marie  learned  to  long  for  his  com- 
ing and  to  sigh  when  he  went  away ;  for  he  was  practically 
the  only  company  she  had.  They  became  very  intimate, 
and  there  was  but  little  they  did  not  confide  to  each  other. 

"Madam,"  said  Sti  one  day,  "is  it  your  purpose  to  re- 
turn to  his  Excellency,  if  he  make  you  full  and  proper 
apologies?" 

*'Even  though  he  were  to  come  here  crawling  on  his 
knees,"  she  replied,  "I  would  thrust  him  away.  I  have 
naught  but  contempt  and  loathing  for  him  in  my  heart;  for 
there  's  not  a  faithful  sentiment  in  his  mind,  not  one  hon- 
est drop  of  warm  blood  in  his  body.  He  is  a  slimy,  cursed 
harlot  and  no  man.  He  has  the  empty,  faithless  eyes  of 
a  harlot  and  the  soulless,  clammy  desire  of  a  harlot.  There 
has  never  a  warm-blooded  passion  carried  him  out  of  him- 
self;  never  a  heartfelt  word  cried  from  his  lips,  I  hate  him. 
Sti,  for  I  feel  myself  besmirched  by  his  stealthy  hands  and 
bawdy  words." 

*' Then,  madam,  you  will  sue  for  a  separation?" 

Marie  replied  that  she  would,  and  if  her  father  had  only 
stood  by  her,  the  case  would  have  been  far  advanced,  but 
he  was  in  no  hurry,  for  he  still  thought  the  quarrel  could  be 
patched  up,  though  it  never  would  be. 

They  talked  of  what  maintenance  she  might  look  for 
after  the  divorce,  and  Marie  said  that  Erik  Grubbe  meant 
to  demand  Kalo  on  her  behalf.  Sti  thought  this  was  ill-con- 
sidered. He  forecast  a  very  different  lot  for  her  than  sitting 


178  MARIE  GRUBBE 

as  a  dowager  in  an  obscure  corner  of  Jutland  and  at  last, 
perhaps,  marrying  a  country  squire,  which  was  the  utmost 
she  could  aspire  to  if  she  stayed.  Her  role  at  court  was 
played  out,  for  Ulrik  Frederik  was  in  such  high  favor  that 
he  would  have  no  trouble  in  keeping  her  away  from  it  and 
it  from  her.  No,  Sti's  advice  was  that  she  should  demand 
her  fortune  in  ready  money  and,  as  soon  as  it  was  paid 
her,  leave  the  country,  never  to  set  foot  in  it  again.  With 
her  beauty  and  grace,  she  could  win  a  fairer  fate  in  France 
than  here  in  this  miserable  land  with  its  boorish  nobility 
and  poor  little  imitation  of  a  court. 

He  told  her  so,  and  the  frugal  life  at  Kalo  made  a  good 
background  for  the  alluring  pictures  he  sketched  of  the 
splendid  and  brilliant  court  of  Louis  the  Fourteenth.  Marie 
was  fascinated,  and  came  to  regard  France  as  the  theatre 
of  all  her  dreams. 

Sti  Hogh  was  as  much  under  the  spell  of  his  love  for 
Marie  as  ever,  and  he  often  spoke  to  her  of  his  passion, 
never  asking  or  demanding  anything,  never  even  express- 
ing hope  or  regret,  but  taking  for  granted  that  she  did  not 
return  his  love  and  never  would.  At  first  Marie  heard  him 
with  a  certain  uneasy  surprise,  but  after  a  while  she  be- 
came absorbed  in  listening  to  these  hopeless  musings  on  a 
love  of  which  she  was  the  source,  and  it  was  not  without 
a  certain  intoxicating  sense  of  power  that  she  heard  her- 
self called  the  lord  of  life  and  death  to  so  strange  a  person  as 
Sti  Hogh.  Before  long,  however,  Sti's  lack  of  spirit  began  to 
irritate  her.  He  seemed  to  give  up  the  fight  merely  because 
the  object  of  it  was  unattainable,  and  to  accept  tamely  the 
fact  that  too  high  was  too  high.  She  did  not  exactly  doubt 
that  there  was  real  passion  underneath  his  strange  words 
or  grief  behind  his  melancholy  looks,  but  she  wondered 


MARIE  GRUBBE  179 

whether  he  did  not  speak  more  strongly  than  he  felt.  A  hope- 
less passion  that  did  not  defiantly  close  its  eyes  to  its  own 
hopelessness  and  storm  ahead  —  she  could  not  understand 
it  and  did  not  believe  in  it.  She  formed  a  mental  picture  of 
Sti  Hogh  as  a  morbid  nature,  everlastingly  fingering  him- 
self and  hugging  the  illusion  of  being  richer  and  bigger 
and  finer  than  he  really  was.  Since  no  reality  bore  out  this 
conception  of  himself,  he  seemed  to  feed  his  imagination 
with  great  feelings  and  strong  passions  that  were,  in  truth, 
born  only  in  the  fantastic  pregnancy  of  his  over-busy  brain. 
His  last  words  to  her — for,  at  her  father's  request,  she  was 
returning  to  Tjele,  where  he  could  not  follow  her — served 
to  confirm  her  in  the  opinion  that  this  mental  portrait  re- 
sembled him  in  every  feature. 

He  had  bid  her  good-by  and  was  standing  with  his  hand 
on  the  latch,  when  he  turned  back  to  her,  saying :  "  A  black 
leaf  of  my  book  of  life  is  being  turned,  now  that  your  Kalo 
days  are  over,  madam,  f  shall  think  of  this  time  with  long- 
ing and  anguish,  as  one  who  has  lost  all  earthly  happiness 
and  all  that  was  his  hope  and  desire,  and  yet,  madam,  if 
such  a  thing  should  come  to  pass  as  that  there  were  reason 
to  think  you  loved  me,  and  if  I  were  to  believe  it,  then  God 
only  knows  what  it  might  make  of  me.  Perhaps  it  might 
rouse  in  me  those  powers  which  have  hitherto  failed  to 
unfold  their  mighty  wings.  Then  perhaps  the  part  of  my 
nature  that  is  thirsting  after  great  deeds  and  burning  with 
hope  might  be  in  the  ascendant,  and  make  my  name  famous 
and  great.  Yet  it  might  as  well  be  that  such  unutterable 
happiness  would  slacken  every  high-strung  fibre,  silence 
every  crying  demand,  and  dull  every  hope.  Thus  the  land 
of  my  happiness  might  be  to  my  gifts  and  powers  a  lazy 
Capua.  ..." 


i8o  MARIE  GRUBBE 

No  wonder  Marie  thought  of  him  as  she  did,  and  she 
realized  that  it  was  best  so.  Yet  she  sighed. 

She  returned  to  Tjele  by  Erik  Grubbe's  desire,  for  he  was 
afraid  that  Sti  might  persuade  her  to  some  step  that  did  not 
fit  into  his  plans,  and  besides  he  was  bound  to  try  whether 
he  could  not  talk  her  into  some  compromise,  by  which  the 
marriage  might  remain  in  force.  This  proved  fruitless,  but 
still  Erik  Grubbe  continued  to  write  Ulrik  Frederik  letters 
begging  him  to  take  back  Marie.  Ulrik  Frederik  never  re- 
plied. He  preferred  to  let  the  matter  hang  fire  as  long  as 
possible,  for  the  sacrifice  of  property  that  would  have  to 
follow  a  divorce  was  extremely  inconvenient  for  him.  As 
for  his  father-in-law's  assurances  of  Marie's  conciliatory 
state  of  mind,  he  did  not  put  any  faith  in  them.  Squire  Erik 
Grubbe's  untruthfulness  was  too  well  known. 

Meanwhile  Erik  Grubbe's  letters  grew  more  and  more 
threatening,  and  there  were  hints  of  a  personal  appeal  to 
the  King.  Ulrik  Frederik  realized  that  matters  could  not 
go  on  this  way  much  longer,  and  while  in  Copenhagen,  he 
wrote  his  bailiff  at  Kalo,  Johan  Utrecht,  ordering  him  to 
find  out  secretly  whether  Madam  Gyldenlove  would  meet 
him  there  unknown  to  Erik  Grubbe.  This  letter  was  writ- 
ten in  March  of  sixty-nine.  Ulrik  Frederik  hoped,  by  this 
meeting,  to  learn  how  Marie  really  felt,  and  in  case  he 
found  her  compliant,  he  meant  to  take  her  back  with  him 
to  Aggershus.  If  not,  he  would  make  promises  of  steps 
leading  to  an  immediate  divorce,  and  so  secure  for  himself 
as  favorable  terms  as  possible.  But  Marie  Grubbe  refused 
to  meet  him,  and  Ulrik  Frederik  was  obliged  to  go  back 
to  Norway  with  nothing  accomplished. 

Still  Erik  Grubbe  went  on  with  his  futile  letter-writing, 
but  in  February  of  sijcteen  hundred  and  seventy,  they  had 


MARIE  GRUBBE  i8i 

tidings  of  the  death  of  Frederik  the  Third,  and  then  Erik 
Grubbe  felt  the  time  had  come  to  act.  King  Frederik  had 
always  held  his  son  Ulrik  Frederik  in  such  high  regard  and 
had  such  a  blind  fondness  for  him  that  in  a  case  like  this  he 
would  no  doubt  have  laid  all  the  blame  on  the  other  party. 
King  Christian  might  be  expected  to  take  a  different  atti- 
tude, for  though  he  and  Ulrik  Frederik  were  bosom  friends 
and  boon  companions, a  tiny  shadow  of  jealousy  might  lurk 
in  the  mind  of  the  King,  who  had  often,  in  his  father's  time, 
been  pushed  aside  for  his  more  gifted  and  brilliant  half- 
brother.  Besides,  young  rulers  liked  to  show  their  impartial- 
ity and  would  often,  in  their  zeal  for  justice,  be  unfair  to 
the  very  persons  whom  they  might  be  supposed  to  favor. 
So  it  was  decided  that  in  the  spring  they  should  both  go 
to  Copenhagen.  In  the  meantime,  Marie  was  to  try  to  get 
from  Johan  Utrecht  two  hundred  rix-dollars  to  buy  mourn- 
ing, so  that  she  could  appear  properly  before  the  new  king, 
but  as  the  bailifF  did  not  dare  to  pay  out  anything  without 
orders  from  Ulrik  Frederik,  Marie  had  to  go  without  the 
mourning,  for  her  father  would  not  pay  for  it,  and  thought 
the  lack  of  it  would  make  her  pitiful  condition  the  more 
apparent. 

They  arrived  in  Copenhagen  toward  the  end  of  May, 
and  when  a  meeting  between  father  and  son-in-law  had 
proved  fruitless,  Erik  Grubbe  wrote  to  the  King  that  he 
had  no  words  to  describe,  in  due  submission,  the  shame, 
disgrace,  and  dishonor  with  which  his  Excellency  Gylden- 
love  had,  some  years  ago,  driven  his  wife,  Marie  Grubbe, 
out  of  Aggershus,  and  had  given  her  over  to  the  mercies 
of  wind  and  weather  and  freebooters,  who  at  that  time  in- 
fested the  sea,  there  being  a  burning  feud  between  Holland 
and  England.  God  in  his  mercy  had  preserved  her  from  the 


1 82  MARIE  GRUBBE 

above-mentioned  mortal  dangers,  and  she  had  returned  to 
his  home  in  possession  of  life  and  health.  Nevertheless, 
it  was  an  unheard-of  outrage  that  had  been  inflicted  upon 
her,  and  he  had  time  and  again  u'ith  letters,  supplications, 
and  tears  of  weeping,  besought  his  noble  and  right  honor- 
able son,  my  lord  his  Excellency,  that  he  would  consider 
of  this  matter,  and  either  bring  proofs  against  Marie  why 
the  marriage  should  be  annulled,  or  else  take  her  back,  but 
all  in  vain.  Marie  had  brought  him  a  fortune  of  many  thou- 
sand rix-dollars,  and  she  had  not  even  been  able  to  get  two 
hundred  rix-dollars  with  which  to  buy  mourning  dress.  In 
brief,  her  misery  was  too  manifold  to  be  described;  where- 
fore they  now  addressed  themselves  to  his  Majesty  the  King, 
appealing  to  the  natural  kindness  and  condescension  of 
their  most  gracious  sovereign,  with  the  prayer  that  he  would 
for  God's  sake  have  mercy  upon  him,  Erik  Grubbe,  for  his 
great  age,  which  was  seven  and  sixty  years,  and  upon  her 
for  her  piteous  condition,  and  be  graciously  pleased  to  com- 
mand his  Excellency  Gyldenlove  that  he  should  either  bring 
proof  against  Marie  of  that  for  which  Christ  said  married 
persons  should  be  parted,  which,  however,  he  would  never 
be  able  to  do,  or  else  take  her  back,  whereby  the  glory 
of  God  would  be  furthered,  the  state  of  marriage  held  in 
honor  as  God  had  Himself  ordained,  great  cause  of  ofFence 
removed,  and  a  soul  be  saved  from  perdition. 

Marie  at  first  refused  to  put  her  name  to  this  document, 
since  she  was  determined  not  to  live  with  Ulrik  Frederik, 
whatever  happened,  but  her  father  assured  her  that  the 
appeal  to  her  husband  to  take  her  back  was  merely  a  matter 
of  form.  The  fact  was  that  Ulrik  Frederik  now  wanted  a 
divorce  at  any  price,  and  the  wording  of  the  petition  would 
put  the  onus  of  demanding  it  upon  him,  thus  securing  for 


MARIE  GRUBBE  183 

her  better  terms.  Marie  finally  yielded  and  even  added  a 
postscript,  written  according  to  her  father's  dictation,  as 
follows : 

I  would  fain  have  spoken  with  your  Royal  Majesty,  but, 
miserable  woman  that  I  am,  I  have  no  dress  proper  to 
appear  among  people.  Have  pity  on  my  wretchedness, 
most  gracious  Monarch  and  King,  and  help  me!  God  will 
reward  you. 

MARIE  GRUBBE. 

As  she  did  not  put  much  faith  in  Erik  Grubbe's  assurances, 
she  managed  to  get  a  private  letter  into  the  hands  of  the 
King  through  one  of  her  old  friends  at  court.  In  this  she  told 
him  plainly  how  she  loathed  Ulrik  Frederik,  how  eagerly 
she  longed  to  be  legally  parted  from  him,  and  how  she  shrank 
from  having  even  the  slightest  communication  with  him  in 
regard  to  the  settlement  of  money  matters. 

Yet  Erik  Grubbe  had,  for  once,  spoken  the  truth.  Ulrik 
Frederik  really  wanted  a  divorce.  His  position  at  court  as 
the  King's  half-brother  was  very  different  from  that  of  the 
King's  favorite  son.  He  could  no  longer  trust  to  fatherly 
partiality,  but  simply  had  to  compete  with  the  men  about 
him  for  honor  and  emoluments.  To  have  such  a  case  as  this 
pending  did  not  help  to  strengthen  his  position.lt  would  be 
much  better  to  make  an  end  of  it  as  quickly  as  possible  and 
seek  compensation  in  a  new  and  wiser  marriage  for  what- 
ever the  divorce  might  cost  him  in  fortune  or  reputation. 
So  he  brought  all  his  influence  to  bear  to  reach  this  end. 

The  King  laid  the  case  before  the  Consistory,  and  this 
body  delivered  a  report,  following  which  the  marriage  was 
dissolved  by  judgment  of  the  Supreme  Court,  October  four- 


1 84  MARIE  GRUBBE 

teenth,  sixteen  hundred  and  seventy.  Both  parties  were  to 
have  the  right  to  marry  again,  and  Marie  Grubbe's  twelve 
thousand  rix-dollars  were  to  be  refunded  to  her  with  all  her 
other  dowry  of  jewels  and  estates.  As  soon  as  the  money 
had  been  paid  over  to  her,  she  began  preparations  to  leave 
the  country,  without  listening  to  her  father's  remonstrances. 
As  for  Ulrik  Frederik,  he  wrote  his  half-sister,  wife  of  Johan 
Georg,  Elector  of  Saxony,  telling  her  of  his  divorce,  and 
asking  if  she  would  show  him  so  much  sisterly  kindness 
that  he  might  flatter  himself  with  the  hope  of  receiving  a 
bride  from  her  royal  hands. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

MARIE  Grubbe  had  never  had  money  of  her  own, 
and  the  possession  of  a  large  sum  gave  her  a  sense 
of  powers  and  possibilities  without  limit.  Indeed,  it  seemed 
to  her  that  a  veritable  magic  wand  had  been  placed  in  her 
hands,  and  she  longed  like  a  child  to  wave  it  round  and 
round  and  bring  all  the  treasures  of  the  earth  to  her  feet. 

Her  most  immediate  wish  was  to  be  far  away  from  the 
towers  of  Copenhagen  and  the  meadows  of  Tjele,  from 
Erik  Grubbe  and  Aunt  Rigitze.  She  waved  the  wand  once, 
and  lo  !  she  was  carried  by  wheel  and  keel,  over  water  and 
way,  from  the  land  of  Sjælland  to  Liibeck  town.  Her  whole 
retinue  consisted  of  the  maid  Lucie,  whom  she  had  per- 
suaded her  aunt  to  let  her  have,  and  a  trader's  coachman 
from  Aarhus,  for  the  real  outfitting  for  her  trip  was  to  be 
done  at  Liibeck. 

It  was  Sti  Hogh  who  had  put  into  her  head  the  idea  of 
travelling,  and  in  doing  so,  he  had  hinted  that  he  might 
himself  leave  the  country  to  seek  his  fortune  abroad,  and 
had  offered  his  services  as  courier.  Summoned  by  a  letter 
from  Copenhagen,  he  arrived  in  Liibeck  a  fortnight  after 
Marie,  and  at  once  began  to  make  himself  useful  by  attend- 
ing to  the  preparations  necessary  for  so  long  a  journey. 

In  her  secret  heart,  Marie  had  hoped  to  be  a  benefactor 
to  poor  Sti  Hogh.  She  meant  to  use  some  of  her  wealth  to 
lighten  his  expenses  on  the  trip  and  in  France,  until  it 
should  appear  whether  some  other  fountain  would  well  in 
his  behalf.  But  when  poor  Sti  Hogh  came,  he  surprised  her 
by  being  splendidly  attired,  excellently  mounted,  attended 
by  two  magnificent  grooms,  and  altogether  looking  as  if 
his  purse  by  no  means  needed  to  be  swelled  by  her  gold. 


1 86  MARIE  GRUBBE 

More  astonishing  yet  was  the  change  in  his  state  of  mind. 
He  seemed  lively,  even  merry.  In  the  past,  he  had  always 
looked  as  if  he  were  marching  with  stately  step  in  his  own 
funeral  procession,  but  now  he  trod  the  floor  with  the 
air  of  a  man  who  owned  half  the  world  and  had  the  other 
half  coming  to  him.  In  the  old  days,  there  had  always 
been  something  of  the  plucked  fowl  about  him,  but  now 
he  seemed  like  an  eagle,  with  spreading  plumage  and  sharp 
eyes  hinting  of  still  sharper  claws. 

Marie  at  first  thought  the  change  was  due  to  his  relief  in 
casting  behind  him  past  worries  and  his  hope  of  winning  a 
future  worth  while,  but  when  he  had  been  with  her  several 
days,  and  had  not  opened  his  lips  to  one  of  the  love-sick, 
dispirited  words  she  knew  so  well,  she  began  to  believe  he 
had  conquered  his  passion  and  now,  in  the  sense  of  proudly 
setting  his  heel  on  the  head  of  the  dragon  love,  felt  free  and 
strong  and  master  of  his  own  fate.  She  grew  quite  curious 
to  know  whether  she  had  guessed  aright,  and  thought,  with 
a  slight  feeling  of  pique,  that  the  more  she  saw  of  Sti  Hogh, 
the  less  she  knew  him. 

This  impression  was  confirmed  by  a  talk  she  had  with 
Lucie.  The  two  were  walking  in  the  large  hall  which  formed 
a  part  of  every  Liibeck  house,  serving  as  entry  and  living- 
room,  as  playground  for  the  children  and  the  scene  of  the 
chief  household  labors,  besides  being  used  sometimes  for 
dining-room  and  storehouse.  This  particular  hall  was  in- 
tended chiefly  for  warm  weather,  and  was  furnished  only 
with  a  long  white-scoured  deal  table,  some  heavy  wooden 
chairs, and  an  old  cupboard.Atthefarther  end,  some  boards 
had  been  put  up  for  shelves,  and  there  cabbages  lay  in  long 
rows  over  red  mounds  of  carrots  and  bristling  bunches 
of  horse-radish.  The  outer  door  was  wide  open  and  showed 


MARIE  GRUBBE  187 

the  wet,  glistening  street,  where  the  rain  splashed  in  shin- 
ing rivulets. 

Marie  Grubbe  and  Lucie  were  both  dressed  to  go  out, 
the  former  in  a  fur-bordered  cloak  of  broadcloth,  the  latter 
in  a  cape  of  gray  russet.  They  were  pacing  the  red  brick 
floor  with  quick,  firm  little  steps  as  though  trying  to  keep 
their  feet  warm  while  waiting  for  the  rain  to  stop. 

"Pray,  d' you  think  it's  a  safe  travelling  companion 
you've  got?"  asked  Lucie. 

"Sti  Hogh?  Safe  enough,  I  suppose.  Why  not?" 

"Faith,  I  hope  he  won't  lose  himself  on  the  way,  that 's 
all." 

"Lose  himself?" 

"Ay,  among  the  German  maidens — or  the  Dutch,  for 
the  matter  of  that.  You  know  't  is  said  of  him  his  heart  is 
made  of  such  fiery  stuff,  it  bursts  into  flame  at  the  least 
flutter  of  a  petticoat." 

"Who  's  taken  you  to  fools'  market  with  such  fables?" 

"  Merciful !  Did  you  never  hear  that  ?  Your  own  brother- 
in-law?  Who  'd  have  thought  that  could  be  news  to  you! 
Why,  I  'd  as  lief  have  thought  to  tell  you  the  week  had 
seven  days." 

"Come,  come,  what  ails  you  to-day?  You  run  on  as  if 
you  'd  had  Spanish  wine  for  breakfast." 

*'  One  of  us  has,  that 's  plain.  Pray  have  you  never  heard 
tell  of  Ermegaard  Lynow  ? " 

"Never." 

"Then  ask  Sti  Hogh  if  he  should  chance  to  know  her. 
And  name  to  him  Jydte  Krag  and  Christence  Rud  and 
Edele  Hansdaughter  and  Lene  Poppings  if  you  like.  He 
might  happen  to  know  some  fables,  as  you  call  it,  about 
them  all." 


i88  MARIE  GRUBBE 

Marie  stopped  and  looked  long  and  fixedly  through  the 
open  door  at  the  rain.  "  Perhaps  you  know,"  she  said,  as 
she  resumed  her  walk,  "perhaps  you  know  some  of  these 
fables,  so  that  you  can  tell  them." 

"  Belike  I  do." 

"Concerning  Ermegaard  Lynow?" 

"Concerning  her  in  particular." 

"Well,  let's  have  it." 

"Why,  it  had  to  do  with  one  of  the  Hoghs  —  Sti,  I  think 
his  name  was — tall,  red-haired,  pale  —  " 

"Thanks,  but  all  that  I  know  already." 

*'And  do  you  know  about  the  poison,  too?" 

"Nay,  nothing." 

"Nor  the  letter?" 

"What  letter?" 

"  Faugh,  't  is  such  an  ugly  story ! " 

"Out  with  it!" 

"Why,  this  Hogh  was  a  very  good  friend, — this  hap- 
pened before  he  was  married, — and  he  was  the  very  best  of 
friends  with  Ermegaard  Lynow.  She  had  the  longest  hair 
of  any  lady  —  she  could  well-nigh  walk  on  it,  and  she  was 
red  and  white  and  pretty  as  a  doll,  but  he  was  harsh  and 
barbarous  to  her,  they  said,  as  if  she  'd  been  an  unruly 
staghound  and  not  the  gentle  creature  she  was,  and  the 
more  inhumanly  he  used  her,  the  more  she  loved  him.  He 
might  have  beaten  her  black  and  blue — and  belike  he  did 
— she  would  have  kissed  him  for  it.  To  think  that  one 
person  can  be  so  bewitched  by  another,  it 's  horrible !  But 
then  he  got  tired  of  her  and  never  even  looked  at  her,  for 
he  was  in  love  with  some  one  else, and  Mistress  Ermegaard 
wept  and  came  nigh  breaking  her  heart  and  dying  of  grief, 
but  still  she  lived,  though  forsooth  it  was  n't  much  of  a  Ufe. 


MARIE  GRUBBE  189 

At  last  she  could  n't  bear  it  any  longer,  and  when  she  saw 
Sti  Hogh  riding  past,  so  they  said,  she  ran  out  after  him, 
and  followed  alongside  of  his  horse  for  a  mile,  and  he  never 
so  much  as  drew  rein  nor  listened  to  her  crying  and  plead- 
ing, but  rode  on  all  the  faster  and  left  her.  That  was  too 
much  for  her,  and  so  she  took  deadly  poison  and  wrote  Sti 
Hogh  that  she  did  it  for  him,  and  she  would  never  stand 
in  his  way,  all  that  she  asked  was  that  he  would  come  and 
see  her  before  she  died." 

"And  then?" 

"Why,  God  knows  if  it 's  true  what  people  say,  for  if 
it  is,  he  's  the  wickedest  body  and  soul  hell  is  waiting  for. 
They  say  he  wrote  back  that  his  love  would  have  been  the 
best  physic  for  her,  but  as  he  had  none  to  give  her,  he  'd 
heard  that  milk  and  white  onions  were  likewise  good,  and 
he  'd  advise  her  to  take  some.  That 's  what  he  said.  Now, 
what  do  you  think  of  that  ?  Could  anything  be  more  in- 
human ? " 

"And  Mistress  Ermegaard?" 

"  Mistress  Ermegaard  ? " 

"Ay,  what  of  her?" 

"Well,  no  thanks  to  him,  but  she  had  n't  taken  enough 
poison  to  kill  her,  though  she  was  so  sick  and  wretched, 
they  thought  she  'd  never  be  well  again." 

"Poor  little  lamb!"  said  Marie,  laughing. 

Almost  every  day  in  the  time  that  followed  brought  some 
change  in  Marie's  conception  of  Sti  Hogh  and  her  relation 
to  him.  Sti  was  no  dreamer,  that  was  plain  from  the  fore- 
thought and  resourcefulness  he  displayed  in  coping  with 
the  innumerable  difficulties  of  the  journey.  It  was  evident, 
too,  that  in  manners  and  mind  he  was  far  above  even  the 
most  distinguished  of  the  noblemen  they  met  on  their  way. 


190  MARIE  GRUBBE 

What  he  said  was  always  new  and  interesting  and  differ- 
ent; he  seemed  to  have  a  shortcut,  known  only  to  him- 
self, to  an  understanding  of  men  and  affairs,  and  Marie 
was  impressed  by  the  audacious  scorn  with  which  he 
owned  his  belief  in  the  power  of  the  beast  in  man  and  the 
scarcity  of  gold  amid  the  dross  of  human  nature.  With 
cold,  passionless  eloquence  he  tried  to  show  her  how  little 
consistency  there  was  in  man,  how  incomprehensible  and 
uncomprehended,  how  weak-kneed  and  fumbling  and  al- 
together the  sport  of  circumstance,  that  which  was  noble 
and  that  which  was  base  fought  for  ascendancy  in  his  soul. 
The  fervor  with  which  he  expounded  this  seemed  to  her 
great  and  fascinating,  and  she  began  to  believe  that  rarer 
gifts  and  greater  powers  had  been  given  him  than  usually 
fell  to  the  lot  of  mortals.  She  bowed  down  in  admiration, 
almost  in  worship,  before  the  tremendous  force  she  ima- 
gined him  possessed  of.  Yet  withal  there  lurked  in  her  soul 
a  still  small  doubt,  which  was  never  shaped  into  a  definite 
thought,  but  hovered  as  an  instinctive  feeling,  whispering 
that  perhaps  his  power  was  a  power  that  threatened  and 
raged,  that  coveted  and  desired,  but  never  swooped  down, 
never  took  hold. 

In  Lohendorf,  about  three  miles  from  Vechta, there  was  an 
old  inn  near  the  highway,  and  there  Marie  and  her  trav- 
elling companions  sought  shelter  an  hour  or  two  after  sun- 
down. 

In  the  evening,  when  the  coachmen  and  grooms  had  gone 
to  bed  in  the  outhouses,  Marie  and  Sti  Hogh  were  sitting  at 
the  little  red  painted  table  before  the  great  stove  in  a  cor- 
ner of  the  tap-room,  chatting  with  two  rather  oafish  Old- 
enborg noblemen.  Lucie  was  knitting  and  looking  on  from 


MARIE  GRUBBE  191 

her  place  at  the  end  of  a  bench  where  she  sat  leaning  against 
the  edge  of  the  longtable  running  underneath  the  windows. 
A  tallow  dip,  in  a  yellow  earthenware  candlestick  on  the 
gentlefolk's  table,  cast  a  sleepy  light  over  their  faces,  and 
woke  greasy  reflections  in  a  row  of  pewter  plates  ranged 
above  the  stove.  Marie  had  a  small  cup  of  warm  wine  be- 
fore her.  Sti  Hogh  a  larger  one,  while  the  two  Oldenborgers 
were  sharing  a  huge  pot  of  ale,  which  they  emptied  again 
and  again,  and  which  was  as  often  filled  by  the  slovenly 
drawer,  who  lounged  on  the  goose-bench  at  the  farther  end 
of  the  room. 

Marie  and  Sti  Hogh  would  both  have  preferred  to  go  to 
bed,  for  the  two  rustic  noblemen  were  not  very  stimulat- 
ing company,  and  no  doubt  they  would  have  gone,  had  not 
the  bedrooms  been  icy  cold  and  the  disadvantages  of  heat- 
ing them  even  worse  than  the  cold,  as  they  found  when  the 
innkeeper  brought  in  the  braziers,  for  the  peat  in  that  part 
of  the  country  was  so  saturated  with  sulphur  that  no  one 
who  was  not  accustomed  to  it  could  breathe  where  it  was 
burning. 

The  Oldenborgers  were  not  merry,  for  they  saw  that 
they  were  in  very  fine  company,  and  tried  hard  to  make 
their  conversation  as  elegant  as  possible;  but  as  the  ale 
gained  power  over  them,  the  rein  they  had  kept  on  them- 
selves grew  slacker  and  slacker,  and  was  at  last  quite  loose. 
Their  language  took  on  a  deeper  local  color,  their  playful- 
ness grew  massive,  and  their  questions  impudent. 

As  the  jokes  became  coarser  and  more  insistent,  Marie 
stirred  uneasily, and  Sti'seyes  asked  across  the  table  whether 
they  should  not  retire.  Just  then  the  fairer  of  the  two  stran- 
gers made  a  gross  insinuation.  Sti  gave  him  a  frown  and 
a  threatening  look,  but  this  only  egged  him  on,  and  he  re- 


192  MARIE  GRUBBE 

peated  his  foul  jest  in  even  plainer  terms,  whereupon  Sti 
promised  that  at  one  more  word  of  the  same  kind  he  would 
get  the  pewter  cup  in  his  head. 

At  that  moment,  Lucie  brought  her  knitting  up  to  the 
table  to  look  for  a  dropped  stitch,  and  the  other  Olden- 
borger availed  himself  of  the  chance  to  catch  her  round  the 
waist,  force  her  down  on  his  knee,  and  imprint  a  sounding 
kiss  on  her  lips. 

This  bold  action  fired  the  fair  man,  and  he  put  his  arm 
around  Marie  Grubbe's  neck. 

In  the  same  second,  Sti's  goblet  hit  him  in  the  fore- 
head with  such  force  and  such  sureness  of  aim  that  he  sank 
down  on  the  floor  with  a  deep  grunt. 

The  next  moment.  Sti  and  the  dark  man  were  grappling 
in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  while  Marie  and  her  maid  fled 
to  a  corner. 

The  drawer  jumped  up  from  the  goose-bench,  bellowed 
something  out  at  one  door,  ran  to  the  other  and  bolted  it 
with  a  two-foot  iron  bar,  just  as  some  one  else  could  be 
heard  putting  the  latch  on  the  postern.  It  was  a  custom  in 
the  inn  to  lock  all  doors  as  soon  as  a  fight  began,  so  no  one 
could  come  from  outside  and  join  in  the  fracas,  but  this  was 
the  only  step  for  the  preservation  of  peace  that  the  inn- 
people  took.  As  soon  as  the  doors  were  closed,  they  would 
sneak  ofFto  bed;  for  he  who  has  seen  nothing  can  testify 
to  nothing. 

Since  neither  party  to  the  fight  was  armed,  the  affair  had 
to  be  settled  with  bare  fists,  and  Sti  and  the  dark  man  stood 
locked  together,  wrestling  and  cursing.  They  dragged  each 
other  back  and  forth,  turned  in  slow,  tortuous  circles,  stood 
each  other  up  against  walls  and  doors,  caught  each  other's 
arms,  wrenched  themselves  loose,  bent  and  writhed,  each 


MARIE  GRUBBE  193 

with  his  chin  in  the  other's  shoulder.  At  last  they  tumbled 
down  on  the  floor,  Sti  on  top.  He  had  knocked  his  adver- 
sary's head  heavily  two  or  three  times  against  the  cold 
clay  floor,  when  suddenly  he  felt  his  own  neck  in  the  grip 
of  two  powerful  hands.  It  was  the  fair  man,  who  had  picked 
himself  up. 

Sti  choked,  his  throat  rattled,  he  turned  giddy,  and  his 
limbs  relaxed.  The  dark  man  wound  his  legs  around  him 
andpulled  himdownbytheshoulders,theotherstill  clutched 
his  throat  and  dug  his  knees  into  his  sides. 

Marie  shrieked  and  would  have  rushed  to  his  aid,  but 
Lucie  had  thrown  her  arms  around  her  mistress  and  held 
her  in  such  a  convulsive  grip  that  she  could  not  stir. 

Sti  was  on  the  point  of  fainting,  when  suddenly,  with  one 
last  effort  of  his  strength,  he  threw  himself  forward,  knock- 
ing the  head  of  the  dark  man  against  the  floor.  The  fingers 
of  the  fair  man  slipped  from  his  throat,  opening  the  way 
for  a  bit  of  air.  Sti  bounded  up  with  all  his  force,  hurled 
himself  at  the  fair  man,  threw  him  down,  bent  over  the 
fallen  man  in  a  fury,  but  in  the  same  instant  got  a  kick  in 
the  pit  of  the  stomach  that  almost  felled  him.  He  caught 
the  ankle  of  the  foot  that  kicked  him;  with  the  other  hand 
he  grasped  the  boot-top,  lifted  the  leg,  and  broke  it  over  his 
outstretched  thigh,  until  the  bones  cracked  in  the  boot,  and 
the  fair  man  sank  down  in  a  swoon.  The  dark  man,  who 
lay  staring  at  the  scene,  still  dizzy  from  the  blows  in  his 
head,  gave  vent  to  a  yell  of  agony  as  if  he  had  himself  been 
the  maltreated  one,  and  crawled  under  the  shelter  of  the 
bench  beneath  the  windows.  With  that  the  fight  was  ended. 

The  latent  savagery  which  this  encounter  had  called  out 
in  Sti  had  a  strange  and  potent  effect  on  Marie.  That  night, 
when  she  laid  her  head  on  the  pillow,  she  told  herself  that 


194  MARIE  GRUBBE 

she  loved  him,  and  when  Sti,  perceiving  a  change  in  her 
eyes  and  manner  that  boded  good  for  him,  begged  for  her 
love,  a  few  days  later,  he  got  the  answer  he  longed  for. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THEY  were  in  Paris.  A  half  year  had  passed,  and  the 
bond  of  love  so  suddenly  tied  had  loosened,  and  at 
last  been  broken.  Marie  and  Sti  Hogh  were  slowly  slipping 
apart.  Both  knew  it,  though  they  had  not  put  the  fact  into 
words.  The  confession  hid  so  much  pain  and  bitterness, 
so  much  abasement  and  self-scorn,  that  they  shrank  from 
uttering  it. 

In  this  they  were  one,  but  in  their  manner  of  bearing 
their  distress  they  were  widely  different.  Sti  Hogh  grieved 
ceaselessly  in  impotent  misery,  dulled  by  his  very  pain 
against  the  sharpest  stings  of  that  pain,  despairing  like  a 
captured  animal  that  paces  back  and  forth,  back  and  forth, 
in  its  narrow  cage.  Marie  was  more  like  a  wild  creature 
escaped  from  captivity,  fleeing  madly,  without  rest  or 
pause,  driven  on  and  ever  on  by  frantic  fear  of  the  chain 
that  drags  clanking  in  its  track. 

She  wanted  to  forget,  but  forgetfulness  is  like  the  heather : 
it  grows  of  its  own  free  will,  and  not  all  the  care  and  labor 
in  the  world  can  add  an  inch  to  its  height.  She  poured 
out  gold  from  overflowing  hands  and  purchased  luxury. 
She  caught  at  every  cup  of  pleasure  that  wealth  could  buy 
or  wit  and  beauty  and  rank  could  procure,  but  all  in  vain. 
There  was  no  end  to  her  wretchedness,  and  nothing,  noth- 
ing could  take  it  from  her.  If  the  mere  parting  from  Sti 
Hogh  could  have  eased  her  pain  or  even  shifted  the  bur- 
den, she  would  have  left  him  long  ago,  but  no,  it  was  all  the 
same,  no  spark  of  hope  anywhere.  As  well  be  together  as 
apart,  since  there  was  no  relief  either  way. 

Yet  the  parting  came,  and  it  was  Sti  Hogh  who  proposed 
it.  They  had  not  seen  each  other  for  several  days,  when  Sti 


196  MARIE  GRUBBE 

came  into  the  drawing-room  of  the  magnificent  apartment 
they  had  rented  from  Isabel  Gilles,the  landlady  of  Z,^  Croix 
de  Fer.  Marie  was  sitting  there,  in  tears.  Sti  shook  his  head 
drearily  and  took  a  chair  at  the  other  end  of  the  room.  It 
was  hard  to  see  her  weep  and  to  know  that  every  word 
of  comfort  from  his  lips,  every  sympathetic  sigh  or  com- 
passionate look,  merely  added  bitterness  to  her  grief  and 
made  her  tears  flow  faster. 

He  went  up  to  her. 

"Marie,"  he  said  in  a  low,  husky  voice,  "let  us  have 
one  more  talk  and  then  part." 

"What  is  the  good  of  that?" 

"Nay,  Marie,  there  are  yet  happy  days  awaiting  you, 
even  now  they  are  coming  thick  and  fast." 

"Ay,  days  of  mourning  and  nights  of  weeping  in  an 
endless,  unbreakable  chain." 

"  Marie,  Marie,  have  a  care  what  you  say,  for  I  under- 
stand the  meaning  of  your  words  as  you  never  think  to 
have  me,  and  they  wound  me  cruelly." 

"I  reck  but  little  of  wounds  that  are  stung  with  words 
for  daggers.  It  was  never  in  my  mind  to  spare  you  them." 

"Then  drive  the  weapon  home,  and  do  not  pity  me — 
not  for  one  instant.  Tell  me  that  my  love  has  besmirched 
you  and  humbled  you  in  the  dust!  Tell  me  that  you  would 
give  years  of  your  life  to  tear  from  your  heart  every  mem- 
ory of  me !  And  make  a  dog  of  me  and  call  me  cur.  Call  me 
by  every  shameful  name  you  know,  and  I  will  answer  to 
every  one  and  say  you  are  right ;  for  I  know  you  are  right, 
you  are,  though  it's  torture  to  say  so!  Hear  me,  Marie, 
hear  me  and  believe  if  you  can:  though  I  know  you  loathe 
yourself  because  you  have  been  mine,  and  sicken  in  your 
soul  when  you  think  of  it,  and  frown  with  disgust  and 


MARIE  GRUBBE  197 

remorse,  yet  do  I  love  you  still  —  I  do  indeed.  I  love  you 
with  all  my  might  and  soul,  Marie." 

"Fie,  shame  on  you.  Sti  Hogh!  Shame  on  you!  You  know 
not  what  you  are  saying.  And  yet  —  God  forgive  me — 
but 't  is  true,  fearful  as  it  seems!  Oh,  Sti,  Sti,  why  are  you 
such  a  varlet  soul?  Why  are  you  such  a  miserable, cringing 
worm  that  doesn't  bite  when  it's  trodden  underfoot?  If 
you  knew  how  great  and  proud  and  strong  I  believed  you 
— you  who  are  so  weak!  It  was  your  sounding  phrases  that 
lied  to  me  of  a  power  you  never  owned ;  they  spoke  loud 
of  everything  your  soul  never  was  and  never  could  be. 
Sti,  Sti,  was  it  right  that  I  should  find  weakness  instead  of 
strength,  abject  doubt  instead  of  brave  faith,  and  pride — 
Sti,  where  was  your  pride?" 

"Justice  and  right  are  but  little  mercy,  but  I  deserve 
naught  else,  for  I  have  been  no  better  than  a  counterfeiter 
with  you,  Marie.  I  never  believed  in  your  love,  no,  even  in 
the  hour  when  you  first  vowed  it  to  me,  there  was  no  faith 
in  my  soul.  Oh!  how  I  wanted  to  believe,  but  could  not! 
I  could  not  down  the  fear  that  lifted  its  dark  head  from  the 
ground,  staring  at  me  with  cold  eyes, blowing  away  my  rich, 
proud  dreams  with  the  breath  from  its  bitterly  smiling 
mouth.  I  could  not  believe  in  your  love,  and  yet  I  grasped 
the  treasure  of  it  with  both  hands  and  with  all  my  soul. 
I  rejoiced  in  it  with  a  timid,  anxious  happiness,  as  a  thief 
might  feel  joy  in  his  golden  booty,  though  he  knew  the 
rightful  owner  would  step  in,  the  next  moment,  and  tear 
the  precious  thing  from  his  hands.  For  I  know  the  man  will 
come  who  will  be  worthy  of  you,  or  whom  you  will  think 
worthy,  and  he  will  not  doubt,  not  tremble  and  entreat. 
He  will  mould  you  like  pure  gold  in  his  hands  and  set 
his  foot  on  your  will,  and  you  will  obey  him,  humbly  and 


198  MARIE  GRUBBE 

gladly.  Not  that  he  will  love  you  more  than  I,  for  that 
no  one  could,  but  that  he  will  have  more  faith  in  himself 
and  less  sense  of  your  priceless  worth,  Marie." 

''  Why,  this  is  a  regular  fortune-teller's  tale  you  're  giving 
me.  Sti  Hogh.  You  are  ever  the  same,  your  thoughts  roam 
far  afield.  You  are  like  children  with  a  new  toy;  instead  of 
playing  with  it,  they  must  needs  pull  it  to  pieces  and  find  out 
how  it  was  made,  and  so  spoil  it.  You  never  have  time  to 
hold  and  enjoy,  because  you  are  ever  reaching  and  seeking. 
You  cut  the  timber  of  life  all  up  into  thought-shavings." 

"  Farewell,  Marie." 

"Farewell,  Sti  Hogh, — as  well  as  may  be." 

"Thanks — thanks — it  must  be  so.  Yet  I  would  ask  of 
you  one  thing." 

"Well?" 

"When  you  depart  from  here,  let  none  know  the  way 
you  go,  lest  I  should  hear  it,  for  if  I  do,  I  cannot  answer 
for  myself  that  I  shall  have  strength  to  keep  from  follow- 
ing you." 

Marie  shrugged  her  shoulders  impatiently. 

"God  bless  you,  Marie,  now  and  forever." 

With  that  he  left  her. 

In  a  fair  November  gloaming,  the  bronze-brown  light  of 
the  sun  is  slowly  receding  from  the  windows  still  gleam- 
ing singly  in  high  gables;  an  instant  it  rests  on  the  slender 
twin  spires  of  the  church,  is  caught  up  there  by  cross  and 
golden  wreath,  then  freed  in  luminous  air,  and  fades,  while 
the  moon  lifts  a  shining  disc  over  the  distant,  long-flowing 
lines  of  the  rounded  hills. 

Yellow,  bluish,  and  purple,  the  fading  tints  of  the  sky 
are  mirrored  in  the  bright,  silently  running  river.  Leaves 


MARIE  GRUBBE  199 

of  willow  and  maple  and  elder  and  rose  drop  from  golden 
crowns  and  flutter  down  to  the  water  in  tremulous  flight, 
rest  on  the  glittering  surface  and  glide  along,  under  lean- 
ing walls  and  stone  steps,  into  the  darkness,  beneath  low, 
massive  bridges,  around  palings  black  with  moisture.  They 
catch  the  glow  from  the  red  coal  fire  in  the  lighted  smithy, 
are  whirled  round  in  the  rust-brown  eddies  by  the  grinder's 
house,  then  drift  away  among  rushes  and  leaky  boats,  lost 
among  sunken  barrels  and  muddy,  water-soaked  fences. 

Blue  twilight  is  spreading  a  transparent  dusk  over  squares 
and  open  markets.  In  the  fountains  the  water  gleams  as 
through  a  delicate  veil, as  it  runs  from  wet  snake-snouts  and 
drips  from  bearded  dragon-mouths, among  fantastic  broken 
curves  and  slender,  serrated  vessels.  It  murmurs  gently  and 
trickles  coldly;  it  bubbles  softly  and  drips  sharply,  making 
rapidly  widening  rings  on  the  dark  surface  of  the  brimming 
basin.  A  breath  of  wind  soughs  through  the  square,  while 
round  about  the  dusky  space,  a  deeper  darkness  stares  from 
shadowy  portals,  black  window-panes,  and  dim  alleys. 

Now  the  moon  is  rising  and  throwing  a  silvery  sheen 
over  roofs  and  pinnacles,  dividing  light  and  shadow  into 
sharp-cut  planes.  Every  carved  beam,  every  flaunting  sign, 
every  baluster  in  the  low  railing  of  the  porches  is  etched  on 
houses  and  walls.  The  stone  lattice-work  over  the  church- 
doors,  St.  George  with  his  lance  there  at  the  corner,  the 
plant  with  its  leaves  here  in  the  window,  all  stand  out  like 
black  figures.  What  a  flood  of  light  the  moon  pours  through 
the  wide  street,  and  how  it  glitters  on  the  water  in  the 
river!  There  are  no  clouds  in  the  heavens,  only  a  ring  like 
a  halo  around  the  moon,  and  nothing  else  except  myriads 
of  stars. 

It  was  such  a  night  as  this  at  Niirnberg,  and  in  the  steep 


zoo  MARIE  GRUBBE 

Street  leading  up  to  the  castle,  in  the  house  known  as  von 
Karndorf's,  a  feast  was  held  that  same  evening.  The  guests 
were  sitting  around  the  table,  merry,  and  full  of  food  and 
drink.  All  but  one  were  men  who  had  left  youth  behind, 
and  this  one  was  but  eighteen  years.  He  wore  no  periwig, 
but  his  own  hair  was  luxuriant  enough,  long,  golden,  and 
curly.  His  face  was  fair  as  a  girl's,  white  and  red,  and  his 
eyes  were  large,  blue,  and  serene.  They  called  him  the 
golden  Remigius,  golden  not  only  because  of  his  hair,  but 
because  of  his  great  wealth.  For  all  his  youth,  he  was  the 
richest  nobleman  in  the  Bavarian  forest — for  he  hailed 
from  the  Bavarian  forest. 

They  were  speaking  of  female  loveliness,  these  gay  gen- 
tlemen around  the  groaning  board,  and  they  all  agreed  that 
when  they  were  young  the  v/orld  was  swarming  with 
beauties,  beside  whom  those  who  laid  claim  to  the  name 
in  these  days  were  as  nothing  at  all. 

"  But  who  knew  the  pearl  among  them  all  ? "  asked  a 
chubby,  red-faced  man  with  tiny,  sparkling  eyes.  "Who 
ever  saw  Dorothea  von  Falkenstein  of  the  Falkensteiners 
of  Harzen  ?  She  was  red  as  a  rose  and  white  as  a  lamb.  She 
could  clasp  her  waist  round  with  her  two  hands  and  have 
an  inch  to  spare,  and  she  could  walk  on  larks'  eggs  without 
crushing  them,  so  light  of  foot  was  she.  But  she  was  none 
of  your  scrawny  chicks  for  all  that;  she  was  as  plump  as  a 
swan  swimming  in  a  lake,  and  firm  as  a  roe-deer  running 
in  the  forest." 

They  drank  to  her. 

''God  bless  you  all,  gray  though  you  be!"  cried  a  tall, 
crabbed  old  fellow  at  the  end  of  the  table.  "The  world  is 
getting  uglier  every  day.  We  have  but  to  look  at  ourselves" 
— his  glance  went  round   the  table  —  "and  think  what 


MARIE  GRUBBE  201 

dashing  blades  we  once  were.  Well,  no  matter  for  that! 
But  where  in  the  name  of  everything  drinkable — can  any 
one  say?  huh?  can  you?  —  who  can? — can  any  one  tell 
me  what 's  become  of  the  plump  landladies  with  laughing 
mouths  and  bright  eyes  and  dainty  feet,  and  the  landladies' 
daughters  with  yellow,  yellow  hair  and  eyes  so  blue  — 
what 's  become  of  them?  huh?  Or  is  't  a  lie  that  one  could 
go  to  any  tavern  or  wayside  inn  or  ordinary  and  find  them 
there?  Oh,  misery  of  miseries  and  wretchedness!  Look  at 
the  hunchbacked  jades  the  tavern  people  keep  in  these  days 
— with  pig's  eyes  and  broad  in  the  beam!  Look  at  the 
toothless,  bald-pated  hags  that  get  the  king's  license  to 
scare  the  life  out  of  hungry  and  thirsty  folks  with  their  sore 
eyes  and  grubby  hands !  Faugh,  I  'm  as  scared  of  an  inn 
as  of  the  devil  himself,  for  I  know  full  well  the  tapster  is 
married  to  the  living  image  of  the  plague  from  Liibeck, 
and  when  a  man  's  as  old  as  I  am,  there  's  something  about 
memento  mor'i  that  he  'd  rather  forget  than  remember." 

Near  the  centre  of  the  long  table  sat  a  man  of  strong 
build  with  a  face  rather  full  and  yellow  as  wax,  bushy  eye- 
brows, and  clear,  searching  eyes.  He  looked  not  exactly 
ill,  but  as  if  he  had  suffered  great  bodily  pain,  and  when  he 
smiled  there  was  an  expression  about  his  mouth  as  though 
he  were  swallowing  something  bitter.  He  spoke  in  a  soft, 
low,  rather  husky  voice.  "The  brown  Euphemia  of  the 
Burtenbacher  stock  was  statelier  than  any  queen  I  ever  saw. 
She  could  wear  the  stifFest  cloth  of  gold  as  if  it  were  the  easi- 
est house-dress.  Golden  chains  and  precious  stones  hung 
round  her  neck  and  waist  and  rested  on  her  bosom  and  hair 
as  lightly  as  berries  the  children  deck  themselves  with  when 
they  play  in  the  forest.  There  was  none  like  her.  The  other 
young  maidens  would  look  like  reliquaries  weighed  down 


202  ,    MARIE  GRUBBE 

by  necklaces  of  gold  and  clasps  of  gold  and  jewelled  roses, 
but  she  was  fair  and  fresh  and  festive  and  light  as  a  banner 
that  flies  in  the  wind.  There  was  none  like  her,  nor  is  there 
now." 

"Ay,  and  a  better  one,"  cried  young  Remigius,  jump- 
ing up.  He  bent  forward  across  the  table,  supporting  him- 
self with  one  hand,  while  the  other  swung  a  bright  goblet, 
from  which  the  golden  grape  brimmed  over,  wetting  his 
fingers  and  wrist  and  falling  in  clear  drops  from  his  full 
white  lace  ruffles.  His  cheeks  were  flushed  with  wine,  his 
eyes  shone,  and  he  spoke  in  an  unsteady  voice. 

"Beauty!  Are  you  blind,  one  and  all,  or  have  you  never 
even  seen  the  Lady  from  Denmark — not  so  much  as  seen 
Mistress  Marie !  Her  hair  is  like  the  sunlight  on  a  field  when 
the  grain  is  ripe.  Her  eyes  are  bluer  than  a  steel  blade,  and 
her  lips  are  like  the  bleeding  grape.  She  walks  like  a  star  in 
the  heavens,  and  she  is  straight  as  a  sceptre  and  stately  as 
a  throne,  and  all,  all  charms  and  beauties  of  person  are  hers 
like  rose  upon  rose  in  flowering  splendor.  But  there  is  that 
about  her  loveliness  which  makes  you  feel,  when  you  see 
her,  as  on  a  holy  morn  when  they  blow  the  trumpets  from 
the  tower  of  the  cathedral.  A  stillness  comes  over  you,  for 
she  is  like  the  sacred  Mother  of  Sorrows  on  the  beauteous 
painting;  there  is  the  same  noble  grief  in  her  clear  eyes, 
and  the  same  hopeless,  patient  smile  around  her  lips." 

He  was  quite  moved.  Tears  came  to  his  eyes,  and  he  tried 
to  speak,  but  could  not,  and  remained  standing,  struggling 
with  his  voice  to  utter  the  words.  A  man  sitting  near  him 
laid  a  friendly  hand  on  his  shoulder  and  made  him  sit  down. 
They  drank  together  goblet  after  goblet,  until  all  was  well. 
The  mirth  of  the  old  fellows  rose  high  as  before,  and  noth- 
ing was  heard  but  laughter  and  song  and  revelry. 


MARIE  GRUBBE  203 

Marie  Grubbe  was  at  Niirnberg.  After  the  parting  from  Sti 
Hogh,  she  had  roamed  about  from  place  to  place  for  almost 
a  year,  and  had  finally  settled  there.  She  was  very  mucli 
changed  since  the  night  she  danced  in  the  ballet  at  Fred- 
eriksborg park.  Not  only  had  she  entered  upon  her  thirtieth 
year, but  the  affair  with  Sti  Hogh  had  made  a  strangely  deep 
impression  upon  her.  She  had  left  Ulrik  FVederik,  urged  on 
partly  by  accidental  events,  but  chiefly  because  she  had  kept 
certain  dreams  of  her  early  girlhood  of  the  man  a  woman 
should  pay  homage  to,  one  who  should  be  to  her  like  a  god 
upon  earth,  from  whose  hands  she  could  accept,  lovingly 
and  humbly,  good  and  evil  according  to  his  pleasure.  And 
now,  in  a  moment  of  blindness,  she  had  taken  Sti  for  that 
god,  him  who  was  not  even  a  man.  These  were  her  thoughts. 
Every  weakness  and  every  unmanly  doubt  in  Sti  she  felt 
as  a  stain  upon  herself  that  could  never  be  wiped  out.  She 
loathed  herself  for  that  short-lived  love  and  called  it  base 
and  shameful  names.  The  lips  that  had  kissed  him,  would 
that  they  might  wither!  The  eyes  that  had  smiled  on  him, 
would  that  they  might  be  dimmed !  The  heart  that  had  loved 
him,  would  that  it  might  break!  Every  virtue  of  her  soul  — 
she  had  smirched  it  by  this  love;  every  feeling — she  had 
desecrated  it.  She  lost  all  faith  in  herself,  all  confidence  in 
her  own  worth,  and  as  for  the  future,  it  kindled  no  beacon 
of  hope. 

Her  life  was  finished,  her  course  ended.  A  quiet  nook 
where  she  could  lay  down  her  head,  never  to  lift  it  again, 
was  the  goal  of  all  her  desires. 

Such  was  her  state  of  mind  when  she  came  to  Niirnberg. 
By  chance,  she  met  the  golden  Remigius,  and  his  fervent 
though  diffident  adoration, — the  idolatrous  worship  of  fresh 
youth, — his  exultant  faith  in  her  and  his  happiness  in  this 


204 


MARIE  GRUBBE 


faith, — were  to  her  as  the  cool  dew  to  a  flower  that  has  been 
trodden  under  foot.  Though  it  cannot  rise  again,  neither 
does  it  wither;  it  still  spreads  delicate,  brightly  tinted  petals 
to  the  sun,  and  is  still  fair  and  fragrant  in  lingering  fresh- 
ness. So  with  her.  There  was  balm  in  seeing  herself  pure 
and  holy  and  unsullied  in  the  thoughts  of  another  person. 
It  well-nigh  made  her  whole  again  to  know  that  she  could 
rouse  that  clear-eyed  trust,  that  fair  hope  and  noble  long- 
ing which  enriched  the  soul  of  him  in  whom  they  awoke. 
There  was  comfort  and  healing  in  hinting  of  her  sorrows 
in  shadowy  images  and  veiled  words  to  one  who,  himself 
untried  by  grief,  would  enter  into  her  suffering  with  a 
serene  joy,  grateful  to  share  the  trouble  he  guessed  but  did 
not  understand  and  yet  sympathized  with.  Ay,  it  was  a 
comfort  to  pour  out  her  grief  where  it  met  reverence  and 
not  pity,  where  it  became  a  splendid  queenly  robe  around  her 
shoulders  and  a  tear-sparkling  diadem  around  her  brow. 

Thus  Marie  little  by  little  grew  reconciled  to  herself,but 
then  it  happened  one  day,  when  Remigius  was  out  riding, 
that  his  horse  shied,  threw  him  from  the  saddle,  and  dragged 
him  to  death  by  the  stirrups. 

When  the  news  was  brought  to  Marie,  she  sank  into 
a  dull,  heavy,  tearless  misery.  She  would  sit  for  hours,  star- 
ing straight  before  her  with  a  weary,  empty  look,  silent  as 
if  she  had  been  bereft  of  the  power  of  speech,  and  refusing 
to  exert  herself  in  any  way.  She  could  not  even  bear  to  be 
spoken  to;  if  any  one  tried  it,  she  would  make  a  feeble  ges- 
tureof  protest  and  shake  herhead  as  if  the  sound  pained  her. 

Time  passed,  and  her  money  dwindled,  until  there  was 
barely  enough  left  to  take  them  home.  Lucie  never  tired  of 
urging  this  fact  upon  her,  but  it  was  long  before  she  could 
make  Marie  listen. 


MARIE  GRUBBE  205 

At  last  they  started.  On  the  way,  Marie  fell  ill,  and  the 
journey  dragged  out  much  longer  than  they  had  expected. 
Lucie  was  forced  to  sell  one  rich  gown  and  precious  trin- 
ket after  the  other,  to  pay  their  way.  When  they  reached 
Aarhus,  Marie  had  hardly  anything  left  but  the  clothes 
she  wore.  There  they  parted;  Lucie  returned  to  Mistress 
Rigitze,  and  Marie  went  back  to  Tjele. 

This  was  in  the  spring  of  seventy-three. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

AFTER  she  came  back  to  Tjele,  Mistress  Marie  Grubbe 
.  remained  in  her  father's  household  until  sixteen  hun- 
dred and  seventy-nine,  when  she  was  wedded  to  Palle  Dyre, 
counsellor  of  justice  to  his  Majesty  the  King,  and  with  him 
she  lived  in  a  marriage  that  offered  no  shadow  of  an  event 
until  sixteen  hundred  and  eighty-nine.  This  period  of  her 
life  lasted  from  the  time  she  was  thirty  till  she  was  forty- 
six —  full  sixteen  years. 

Full  sixteen  years  of  petty  worries,  commonplace  duties, 
and  dull  monotony,  with  no  sense  of  intimacy  or  affection 
to  give  warmth, no  homelike  comfort  to  throwa  ray  of  light. 
Endless  brawling  about  nothing,  noisy  hectoring  for  the 
slightest  neglect,  peevish  fault-finding,  and  coarse  jibes  were 
all  that  met  her  ears.  Every  sunlit  day  of  life  was  coined 
into  dollars  and  shillings  and  pennies;  every  sigh  uttered 
was  a  sigh  for  loss;  every  wish,  a  wish  for  gain;  every  hope, 
a  hope  of  more.  All  around  her  was  shabby  parsimony; 
in  every  nook  and  corner,  busyness  that  chased  away  all 
pleasure;  from  every  hour  stared  the  wakeful  eye  of  greed. 
Such  was  the  existence  Marie  Grubbe  led. 

In  the  early  days,  she  would  sometimes  forget  the  hub- 
bub and  bustle  all  around  her  and  sink  into  waking  dreams 
of  beauty,  changing  as  clouds,  teeming  as  light.  There  was 
one  that  cameoftenerthanothers.lt  was  a  dream  of  a  sleep- 
ing castle  hidden  behind  roses.  Oh,  the  quiet  garden  of  that 
castle,  with  stillness  in  the  air  and  in  the  lea  ves,  with  silence 
brooding  over  all  like  a  night  without  darkness !  There  the 
odors  sleptinthe  flower-cups  and  the  dewdropson  the  bend- 
ing blades  of  grass.  There  the  violet  drowsed  with  mouth 
half  open  under  the  curling  leaves  of  the  fern,  while  a  thou- 


MARIE  GRUBBE  207 

sand  bursting  buds  had  been  lulled  to  sleep,  in  the  fullness 
of  spring,  at  the  very  moment  when  they  quickened  on  the 
branches  of  the  moss-green  trees.  She  came  up  to  the  palace. 
From  the  thorny  vines  of  the  rose-bushes,  a  flood  of  green 
billowed  noiselessly  down  over  walls  and  roofs,  and  the 
flowers  fell  like  silent  froth,  sometimes  in  masses  of  bloom, 
sometimes  flecking  the  green  like  pale-pink  foam.  From 
the  mouth  of  the  marble  lion,  a  fountain  jet  shot  up  like  a 
tree  of  crystal  with  boughs  of  cobweb,  and  shining  horses 
mirrored  breathless  mouths  and  closed  eyes  in  the  dor- 
mant waters  of  the  porphyry  basin,  while  the  page  rubbed 
his  eyes  in  sleep. 

She  feasted  her  eyes  on  the  tranquil  beauty  of  the  old 
garden,  where  fallen  petals  lay  like  a  rose-flushed  snowdrift 
high  against  walls  and  doors,  hiding  the  marble  steps.  Oh, 
to  rest !  To  let  the  days  glide  over  her  in  blissful  peace,  hour 
after  hour,  and  to  feel  all  memories,  longings,  and  dreams 
flowing  away,  out  of  her  mind,  in  softly  lapping  waves  — 
that  was  the  most  beautiful  of  all  the  dreams  she  knew. 

This  was  true  at  first,  but  her  imagination  tired  of  flying 
unceasingly  toward  the  same  goal  like  an  imprisoned  bee 
buzzing  against  the  window-pane, and  all  other  faculties  of 
hersoul  wearied  too.  As  a  fair  and  noble  edifice  in  the  hands 
of  barbarians  is  laid  waste  and  spoiled,  the  bold  spires  made 
into  squat  cupolas,  the  delicate,  lace-like  ornaments  broken 
bit  by  bit,  and  the  wealth  of  pictures  hidden  under  layer 
upon  layer  of  deadening  whitewash,  so  was  Marie  Grubbe 
laid  waste  and  spoiled  in  those  sixteen  years. 

Erik  Grubbe,  her,  father,  was  old  and  decrepit,  and  age 
seemed  to  intensify  all  his  worst  traits,  just  as  it  sharpened 
his  features  and  made  them  more  repulsive.  He  was  grouchy 
and  perverse, childishly  obstinate,quick  to  anger, extremely 


2o8  MARIE  GRUBBE 

suspicious,  sly,  dishonest,  and  stingy.  In  his  later  days  he 
always  had  the  name  of  God  on  his  lips,  especially  when 
the  harvest  was  poor  or  the  cattle  were  sick,  and  he  would 
address  the  Lord  with  a  host  of  cringing,  fawning  names 
of  his  own  invention.  It  was  impossible  that  Marie  should 
either  love  or  respect  him,  and  besides  she  had  a  particular 
grudge  against  him,  because  he  had  persuaded  her  to  marry 
Palle  Dyre  by  dint  of  promises  that  were  never  fulfilled  and 
by  threats  of  disinheriting  her,  turning  her  out  of  Tjele,  and 
withdrawing  all  support  from  her.  In  fact,  her  chief  motive 
for  the  change  had  been  her  hope  of  making  herself  inde- 
pendent of  the  paternal  authority,  though  this  hope  was 
frustrated;  for  Palle  Dyre  and  Erik  Grubbe  had  agreed  to 
work  the  farms  of  Tjele  and  Norbæk — which  latter  was 
given  Marie  as  a  dower  on  certain  conditions  —  together, 
and  as  Tjele  was  the  larger  of  the  two,  and  Erik  Grubbe 
no  longer  had  the  strength  to  look  after  it,  Alarie  and  her 
husband  spent  more  time  under  her  father's  roof  than  under 
their  own. 

Palle  Dyre  was  the  son  of  Colonel  Clavs  Dyre  of  Sand- 
vig and  Krogsdal,  later  of  Vinge,  and  his  wife  Edele  Palles- 
daughter  Rodtsteen.  He  was  a  thickset,  shortnecked  little 
man, brisk  in  all  his  motions  and  with  a  rather  forceful  face, 
which,  however,  was  somewhat  marred  by  a  hemorrhage 
in  the  lungs  that  had  affected  his  right  cheek. 

Marie  despised  him.  He  was  as  stingy  and  greedy  as  Erik 
Grubbe  himself.  Yet  he  was  really  a  man  of  some  ability, 
sensible,  energetic,  and  courageous,  but  he  simply  lacked 
any  sense  of  honor  whatever.  He  would  cheat  and  lie  when- 
ever he  had  a  chance,  and  was  never  in  the  least  abashed 
when  found  out.  He  would  allow  himself  to  be  abused  like 
a  dog  and  never  answer  back,  if  silence  could  bring  him 


MARIE  GRUBBE  209 

a  penny's  profit.  Whenever  a  relative  or  friend  commis- 
sioned him  to  buy  or  sell  anything  or  entrusted  any  other 
business  to  him,  he  would  turn  the  matter  to  hisown  advan- 
tage without  the  slightest  scruple.  Though  his  marriage  had 
been  in  the  main  a  bargain,  he  was  not  without  a  sense  of 
pride  in  winning  the  divorced  wife  of  the  Viceroy;  but  this 
did  not  prevent  him  from  treating  her  and  speaking  to  her 
in  a  manner  that  might  have  seemed  incompatible  with 
such  a  feeling.  Not  that  he  was  grossly  rude  or  violent — by 
no  means.  He  simply  belonged  to  the  class  of  people  who 
are  so  secure  in  their  own  sense  of  normal  and  irreproach- 
able mediocrity  that  they  cannot  refrain  from  asserting  their 
superiority  over  the  less  fortunate  and  naively  setting  them- 
selves up  as  models.  As  for  Marie,  she  was,  of  course,  far 
from  unassailable;  her  divorce  from  Ulrik  Frederik  and  her 
squandering  of  her  mother's  fortune  were  but  too  patent 
irregularities. 

This  was  the  man  who  became  the  third  person  in  their 
life  at  Tjele.  Not  one  trait  in  him  gave  grounds  for  hope 
that  he  would  add  to  it  any  bit  of  brightness  or  comfort. 
Nor  did  he.  Endless  quarrelling  and  bickering,  mutual  sul- 
lenness  and  fault-finding,  were  all  that  the  passing  days 
brought  in  their  train. 

Marie  was  blunted  by  it.  Whatever  had  been  delicate  and 
flowerlike  in  her  nature,  all  the  fair  and  fragrant  growth 
which  heretofore  had  entwined  her  life  as  with  luxurious 
though  fantastic  and  even  bizarre  arabesques,  withered  and 
died  the  death.  Coarseness  in  thought  as  in  speech,  a  low  and 
slavish  doubt  of  everything  great  and  noble,  and  a  shameless 
self-scorn  were  the  effect  of  these  sixteen  years  at  Tjele. 
And  yet  another  thing:  she  developed  a  thick-blooded  sen- 
suousness,  a  hankering  for  the  good  things  of  life,  a  lusty 


2  10  MARIE  GRUBBE 

appetite  for  food  and  drink,  for  soft  chairs  and  soft  beds, 
a  voluptuous  pleasure  in  spicy,  narcotic  scents,  and  a  crav- 
ing for  luxury  which  was  neither  ruled  by  good  taste  nor  re- 
fined by  love  of  the  beautiful.  True,  she  had  scant  means  of 
gratifying  these  desires,  but  that  did  not  lessen  their  force. 
She  had  grown  fuller  of  form  and  paler,  and  there  was 
a  slow  languor  in  all  her  movements.  Her  eyes  were  gen- 
erally quite  empty  of  expression,  but  sometimes  they  would 
grow  strangely  bright,  and  she  had  fallen  into  the  habit  of 
setting  her  lips  in  a  meaningless  smile. 

There  came  a  time  when  they  wrote  sixteen  hundred  and 
eighty-nine.  It  was  night,  and  the  horse-stable  at  Tjele  was 
on  fire.  The  flickering  flames  burst  through  the  heavy  clouds 
of  brown  smoke;  they  lit  up  the  grassy  courtyard,  shone  on 
the  low  outhouses  and  the  white  walls  of  the  manor-house, 
and  even  touched  with  light  the  black  crowns  of  the  trees 
in  the  garden  where  they  rose  high  above  the  roof.  Servants 
and  neighbors  ran  from  the  well  to  the  fire  with  pails  and 
buckets  full  of  water  glittering  red  in  the  light  of  the  flames. 
Palle  Dyre  was  here,  there,  and  everywhere,  tearing  wildly 
about,  his  hair  flying,  a  red  wooden  rake  in  his  hand.  Erik 
Grubbe  lay  praying  over  an  old  chaff-bin,  which  had  been 
carried  out.  He  watched  the  progress  of  the  fire  from  beam 
to  beam,  his  agony  growing  more  intense  every  moment, 
and  he  groaned  audibly  whenever  the  flames  leaped  out  tri- 
umphantly and  swung  their  spirals  high  above  the  house  in 
a  shower  of  sparks. 

Marie,  too,  was  there,  but  her  eyes  sought  something  be- 
sides the  fire.  They  were  fixed  on  the  new  coachman,  who 
was  taking  the  frightened  horses  out  from  the  smoke-filled 
stable.  The  doorway  had  been  widened  to  more  than  double 


MARIE  GRUBBE  211 

its  usual  size  by  lifting  off  the  frame  and  tearing  down  a  bit 
of  the  frail  wall  on  either  side,  and  through  this  opening 
he  was  leading  the  animals,  one  by  either  hand.  They  were 
crazed  with  the  smoke,  and  when  the  stinging,  flickering 
light  of  the  flames  met  their  eyes,  they  reared  wildly  and 
threw  themselves  to  one  side,  until  it  seemed  the  man  must 
be  torn  to  pieces  or  be  trampled  down  between  the  powerful 
brutes.  Yet  he  neither  fell  nor  lost  his  hold;  he  forced  their 
noses  down  on  the  ground  and  ran  with  them,  half  driving, 
half  dragging  them,  across  the  courtyard  to  the  gate  of  the 
garden,  where  he  let  them  go. 

There  were  many  horses  at  Tjele,  and  Marie  had  plenty 
of  time  to  admire  that  beautiful,  gigantic  form  in  changing 
postures,  as  he  struggled  with  the  spirited  animals,  one  mo- 
ment hanging  from  a  straight  arm,  almost  lifted  from  the 
ground  by  a  rearing  stallion,  the  next  instant  thrown  vio- 
lently down  and  gripping  the  earth  with  his  feet,  then  again 
urging  them  on  by  leaps  and  bounds,  always  with  the  same 
peculiarly  quiet,  firm,  elastic  movements  seen  only  in  very 
strong  men.  His  short  cotton  breeches  and  blue-gray  shirt 
looked  yellow  where  the  light  fell  on  them  but  black  in  the 
shadows,  and  outlined  sharply  the  vigorous  frame  making  a 
fine,  simple  background  for  the  ruddy  face  with  its  soft,  fair 
down  on  lip  and  chin,  and  the  great  shock  of  blonde  hair. 

Thisgiantof  two-and-twenty  was  known  as Soren  Over- 
seer. His  real  name  was  Soren  Sorensen  Moller,  but  the 
title  had  come  down  to  him  from  his  father,  who  had  been 
overseer  on  a  manor  in  Hvornum. 

The  horses  were  all  brought  out  at  last. The  stable  burned 
to  the  ground,  and  when  the  fire  still  smouldering  on  the  site 
had  been  put  out,  the  servants  went  to  get  a  little  morning 
nap  after  a  wakeful  night. 


212  MARIE  GRUBBE 

Marie  Grubbe,  too,  went  to  bed,  but  she  could  not  sleep. 
She  lay  thinking,  sometimes  blushing  at  her  own  fancies, 
then  tossing  about  as  if  she  feared  them.  It  was  late  when 
she  rose.  She  smiled  contemptuously  at  herself  as  she 
dressed.  Herevery-day  attire  was  usually  careless,  even  slov- 
enly, though  on  special  occasions  she  would  adorn  herself 
in  a  manner  more  showy  than  tasteful,  but  this  morning 
she  put  on  an  old  though  clean  gown  of  blue  homespun, 
tied  a  little  scarlet  silk  kerchief  round  her  neck,  and  took 
out  a  neat,  simple  little  cap;  then  she  suddenly  changed  her 
mind  again  and  chose  instead  one  with  a  turned-up  rim  of 
yellow  and  brown  flowered  stuff  and  a  flounce  of  imita- 
tion silver  brocade  in  the  back,  which  went  but  poorly  with 
the  rest.  Palle  Dyre  supposed  she  wanted  to  go  to  town  and 
gossip  about  the  fire,  and  he  thought  to  himself  there  were 
no  horses  to  drive  her  there.  She  stayed  home,  however, 
but  somehow  she  could  not  work.  She  would  take  up  one 
thing  after  another,  only  to  drop  it  as  quickly.  At  last  she 
went  out  into  the  garden,  saying  that  she  meant  to  set  to 
rights  what  the  horses  had  trampled  in  the  night,  but  she 
did  not  accomplish  much ;  for  she  sat  most  of  the  time  in  an 
arbor  with  her  hands  in  her  lap,  gazing  thoughtfully  into 
the  distance. 

The  unrest  that  had  come  over  her  did  not  leave  her,  but 
grew  worse  day  by  day.  She  was  suddenly  seized  with  a  de- 
sire for  lonely  walks  in  the  direction  of  Fastrup  Grove,  or 
in  the  more  distant  parts  of  the  outer  garden.  Herfatherand 
husband  both  scolded  her,  but  when  she  turned  a  deaf  ear 
and  did  not  even  answer  them,  they  finally  made  up  their 
minds  that  it  was  best  to  let  her  go  her  own  way  for  a  short 
time,  all  the  more  as  it  was  not  the  busy  season. 

About  a  week  after  the  fire,  she  was  taking  her  usual  walk 


MARIE  GRUBBE  213 

out  Fastrup  way,  and  was  skirting  the  edge  of  a  long  copse 
of  stunted  oaks  and  dogrose  that  reached  almost  to  her 
shoulder,  when  suddenly  she  caught  sight  of  Soren  Over- 
seer, stretched  at  full  length  in  the  edge  of  the  copse,  his 
eyes  closed  as  if  he  were  asleep.  A  scythe  was  lying  at  his 
side,  and  the  grass  had  been  cut  for  some  distance  around. 

Marie  stood  for  a  long  time  gazing  at  his  large,  regular 
features,  his  broad,  vigorously  breathing  chest,  and  his  dark, 
full-veined  hands,  which  were  clasped  above  his  head.  But 
Soren  was  drowsing  rather  than  sleeping,  and  suddenly  he 
opened  his  eyes,  wide  awake,  and  looked  up  at  her.  He  was 
startled  at  being  found  by  one  of  the  family  sleeping  when 
he  should  have  been  cutting  hay,  but  the  expression  in 
Marie's  eyes  amazed  him  so  much  that  he  did  not  come  to 
his  senses  until  she  blushed,  said  something  about  the  heat, 
and  turned  to  go.  He  jumped  up,  seized  his  scythe  and  whet- 
stone, and  began  to  rub  the  steel  until  it  sang  through  the 
warm,  tremulous  air.  Then  he  went  at  the  grass,  slashing 
as  if  his  life  were  at  stake. 

After  a  while,  he  saw  Marie  crossing  the  stile  into  the 
grove,  and  at  that  he  paused.  He  stood  a  moment  staring 
after  her,  his  arms  resting  on  his  scythe,  then  suddenly 
flung  it  away  with  all  his  strength,  sat  down  with  legs 
sprawling,  mouth  open,  palms  flat  out  on  the  grass,  and  thus 
he  sat  in  silent  amazement  at  himself  and  his  own  strange 
thoughts. 

He  looked  like  a  man  who  had  just  dropped  down  from 
a  tree. 

His  head  seemed  to  be  teeming  with  dreams.  What  if  any 
one  had  cast  a  spell  over  him?  He  had  never  known  any- 
thing like  the  way  things  swarmed  and  swarmed  inside  of 
his  head,  as  if  he  could  think  of  seven  things  at  once,  and 


214  MARIE  GRUBBE 

he  could  n't  get  the  hang  of  them — they  came  and  went  as 
if  he  'd  nothing  to  say  about  it.  It  surely  was  queer  the  way 
she  'd  looked  at  him,  and  she  had  n't  said  anything  about  his 
sleeping  this  way  in  the  middle  of  the  day.  She  had  looked 
at  him  so  kindly,  straight  out  of  her  clear  eyes,  and — just 
like  Jens  Pedersen's  Trine  she  had  looked  at  him.  Her  lady- 
ship !  Her  ladyship !  There  was  a  story  about  a  lady  at  Nor- 
bæk manor  who  had  runaway  with  her  gamekeeper.  Had  he 
got  such  a  look  when  he  was  asleep?  Her  ladyship!  Maybe 
he  might  get  to  be  good  friends  with  her  ladyship,  just  as 
the  gamekeeper  did.  He  couldn't  understand  it — was  he 
sick?  There  was  a  burning  spot  on  each  of  his  cheeks,  and 
his  heart  beat,  and  he  felt  so  queer,  it  was  hard  to  breathe. 
He  began  to  tug  at  a  stunted  oak,  but  he  could  not  get  a  grip 
on  it  where  he  was  sitting;  he  jumped  up,  tore  it  loose,  and 
threw  it  away,  caught  his  scythe,  and  cut  till  the  grass  flew 
in  the  swath. 

In  the  days  that  followed,  Marie  often  came  near  So  ren, 
who  happened  to  have  work  around  the  house,  and  he  al- 
ways stared  at  her  with  an  unhappy,  puzzled,  questioning 
expression,  as  if  imploring  her  to  give  him  the  answer  to  the 
riddle  she  had  thrown  in  his  way,  but  Marie  only  glanced 
furtively  in  his  direction  and  turned  her  head  away. 

Soren  was  ashamed  of  himself  and  lived  in  constant  fear 
that  his  fellow-servants  would  notice  there  was  something 
the  matter  with  him.  He  had  never  in  all  his  life  before  been 
beset  by  any  feeling  or  longing  that  was  in  the  least  fantas- 
tic, and  it  made  him  timid  and  uneasy.  Maybe  he  was  get- 
ting addled  or  losing  his  wits.  There  was  no  knowing  how 
such  things  came  over  people,  and  he  vowed  to  himself  that 
he  would  think  no  more  about  it,  but  the  next  moment  his 
thoughts  were  again  taking  the  road  he  would  have  barred 


MARIE  GRUBBE  215 

them  from.  The  very  fact  that  he  could  not  get  away  from 
these  notions  was  what  troubled  him  most,  for  he  remem- 
bered that  he  had  heard  tales  of  Cyprianus,  whom  you  could 
burn  and  drown,  yet  he  always  came  back.  In  his  heart  of 
hearts  he  really  hoped  that  the  fancies  would  not  leave  him, 
for  life  would  seem  very  dreary  and  empty  without  them, 
but  this  he  did  not  admit  to  himself.  In  fact,  his  cheeks 
flushed  with  shame  whenever  he  soberly  considered  what  he 
really  had  in  mind. 

About  a  week  after  the  day  when  she  had  found  So  ren 
asleep,  Marie  Grubbe  was  sitting  under  the  great  beech  on 
the  heathery  hill  in  Fastrup  Grove.  She  sat  leaning  her  back 
against  the  trunk,  and  held  an  open  book  in  her  hand,  but 
she  was  not  reading.  With  dreamy  eyes,  she  followed  in- 
tently a  large,  dark  bird  of  prey,  which  hung,  in  slowly  glid- 
ing, watchful  flight,  over  the  unending,  billowing  surface 
of  the  thick,  leafy  treetops. 

The  air  was  drenched  with  light  and  sun,  vibrant  with  the 
drowsy,  monotonous  hum  of  myriad  invisible  insects.  The 
sweet — too  sweet — odor  of  yellow-flowered  broom  and 
the  spicy  fragrance  of  sun-warmed  birch-leaves  mingled 
with  the  earthy  smell  of  the  forest  and  the  almond  scent 
of  white  meadowsweet  in  the  hollows. 

Marie  sighed. 

"  Petits  oiseaux  des  bois," 

she  whispered  plaintively, 

"  que  vous  estes  heureux, 
De  plaindre  librement  vos  tourmens  amoreux. 
Les  valons,  les  rochers,  les  forests  et  les  plaines 
S^auent  également  vos  plaisirs  et  vos  peines." 


2i6  MARIE  GRUBBE 

She  sat  a  moment  trying  to  remember  the  rest,  then  took 
the  book  and  read  in  a  low,  despondent  tone: 

"Vostre  innocente  amour  ne  fuit  point  la  clarte, 
Tout  le  monde  est  pour  vous  un  lieu  de  liberté, 
Mais  ce  cruel  honneur,  ce  fléau  de  nostre  vie, 
Sous  de  si  dures  loix  la  retient  asservie.  .  .  ." 

She  closed  the  book  with  a  bang  and  almost  shouted: 

"  II  est  vray  je  ressens  une  secrete  flame 
Qui  malgré  ma  raison  s'allume  dans  mon  arne 
Depuis  le  jour  fatal  que  je  vis  sous  I'ormeau 
Alcidor,  qui  dan^oit  au  son  du  chalumeau." 

Her  voice  sank,  and  the  last  lines  were  breathed  forth  softly, 
almost  automatically,  as  if  her  fancy  were  merely  using  the 
rhythm  as  an  accompaniment  to  other  images  than  those 
of  the  poem.  She  leaned  her  head  back  and  closed  her  eyes. 
It  was  so  strange  and  disturbing,  now  that  she  was  middle- 
aged,  to  feel  herself  again  in  the  grip  of  the  same  breathless 
longing,  the  same  ardent  dreams  and  restless  hopes  that  had 
thrilled  her  youth.  But  would  they  last?  Would  they  not  be 
like  the  short-lived  bloom  that  is  sometimes  quickened  by 
a  sunny  week  in  autumn,  the  after-bloom  that  sucks  the 
very  last  strength  of  the  flower,  only  to  give  it  over,  feeble 
and  exhausted,  to  the  mercy  of  winter  ?  For  they  were  dead, 
these  longings,  and  had  slept  many  years  in  silent  graves. 
Why  did  they  come  again?  What  did  they  want  of  her? 
Was  not  their  end  fulfilled,  so  they  could  rest  in  peace  and 
not  rise  again  in  deceitful  shapes  of  life,  to  play  the  game 
of  youth  once  more  ? 

So  ran  her  thoughts,  but  they  were  not  real.  They  were 


MARIE  GRUBBE  217 

quite  impersonal,  as  if  she  were  making  them  up  about 
some  one  else;  for  she  had  no  doubt  of  the  strength  and 
lasting  power  of  her  passion.  It  had  filled  her  so  irresisti- 
bly and  completely  that  there  was  no  room  left  in  her  for 
reflective  amazement.  Yet  for  a  moment  she  followed  the 
train  of  theoretical  reasoning,  and  she  thought  of  the  golden 
Remigius  and  his  firm  faith  in  her,  but  the  memory  drew 
from  her  only  a  bitter  smile  and  a  forced  sigh,  and  the  next 
moment  her  thoughts  were  caught  up  again  by  other  things. 

She  wondered  whether  Soren  would  have  the  courage 
to  make  love  to  her.  She  hardly  believed  he  would.  He  was 
only  a  peasant,  and  she  pictured  to  herself  his  slavish  fear 
of  the  gentlefolks,  his  dog-like  submission,  his  cringing  ser- 
vility. She  thought  of  his  coarse  habits  and  his  ignorance, 
his  peasant  speech  and  poor  clothes,  his  toil-hardened  body 
and  his  vulgar  greediness.  Was  she  to  bend  beneath  all  this, 
to  accept  good  and  evil  from  this  black  hand?  In  this  self- 
abasement  there  was  a  strange,  voluptuous  pleasure,  which 
was  in  part  gross  sensuality,  but  in  part  akin  to  whatever  is 
counted  noblest  and  best  in  woman's  nature.  For  such  was 
the  manner  in  which  the  clay  had  been  mixed  out  of  which 
she  was  fashioned.  .  .  . 

A  few  days  later,  Marie  Grubbe  was  in  the  brew-house 
at  Tjele  mixing  mead;  for  many  of  the  bee-hives  had  been 
injured  on  the  night  of  the  fire.  She  was  standing  in  the  cor- 
ner by  the  hearth,  looking  at  the  open  door,  where  hundreds 
of  bees,  drawn  by  the  sweet  smell  of  honey,  were  swarm- 
ing, glittering  like  gold  in  the  strip  of  sunlight  that  pierced 
the  gloom. 

Just  then  Soren  came  driving  in  through  the  gate  with  an 
empty  coach  in  which  he  had  taken  Palle  Dyre  to  Viborg. 
He  caught  a  glimpse  of  Marie  and  made  haste  to  unharness 


2i8  MARIE  GRUBBE 

and  stable  the  horses  and  put  the  coach  in  its  place.  Then 
he  strutted  about  a  little  while,  his  hands  buried  deep  in 
the  pockets  of  his  long  livery  coat,  his  eyes  fixed  on  his 
great  boots.  Suddenly  he  turned  abruptly  toward  the  brew- 
house,  swinging  one  arm  resolutely,  frowning  and  biting 
his  lips  like  a  man  who  is  forcing  himself  to  an  unpleasant 
but  unavoidable  decision.  He  had,  in  fact,  been  swearing 
to  himself  all  the  way  from  Viborg  to  Foulum  that  this 
must  end,  and  he  had  kept  up  his  courage  with  a  little  flask, 
which  his  master  had  forgotten  to  take  out  of  the  coach. 

He  took  off  his  hat  when  he  came  into  the  house,  but 
said  nothing,  simply  stood  passing  his  fingers  awkwardly 
along  the  edge  of  the  brewing-vat. 

Marie  asked  whether  Soren  had  any  message  to  her  from 
her  husband. 

No. 

Would  Soren  taste  her  brew,  or  would  he  like  a  piece 
of  sugar-honey  ? 

Yes,  thank  you — or  that  is,  no,  thanks — that  was  n't 
what  he  'd  come  for. 

Marie  blushed  and  felt  quite  uneasy. 

Might  he  ask  a  question? 

Ay,  indeed  he  might. 

Well,  then,  all  he  wanted  to  say  was  this,  with  her  kind 
permission,  that  he  was  n't  in  his  right  mind,  for  waking 
or  sleeping  he  thought  of  nothing  but  her  ladyship,  and  he 
couldn't  help  it. 

Ah,  but  that  was  just  what  Soren  ought  to  do. 

No,  he  wasn't  so  sure  of  that,  for 'twas  not  in  the  way  of 
tending  to  his  work  that  he  thought  of  her  ladyship.  'T  was 
quite  different;  he  thought  of  her  in  the  way  of  what  folks 
called  love. 


MARIE  GRUBBE  219 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  timid  questioning  expression 
and  seemed  quite  crestfallen,  as  he  shook  his  head,  when 
Marie  replied  that  it  was  quite  right;  that  was  what  the 
pastor  said  they  should  all  do. 

No,  't  was  n't  in  that  way  either, 't  was  kind  of  what  you 
might  call  sweethearting.  But  of  course  there  was  n't  any 
cause  for  it  —  he  went  on  in  an  angry  tone  as  if  to  pick 
a  quarrel  —  he  s'posed  such  a  fine  lady  would  be  afraid  to 
come  near  a  poor  common  peasant  like  him,  though  to  be 
sure  peasants  were  kind  of  half  way  like  people  too,  and 
did  n't  have  either  water  or  sour  gruel  for  blood  any  more 
than  gentlefolks.  He  knew  the  gentry  thought  they  were  of 
a  kind  by  themselves,  but  really  they  were  made  about  the 
same  way  as  others,  and  sure  he  knew  they  ate  and  drank 
and  slept  and  all  that  sort  of  thing  just  like  the  lowest,  com- 
monest peasant  lout.  And  so  he  did  n't  think  it  would  hurt 
her  ladyship  if  he  kissed  her  mouth  any  more  than  if  a  gen- 
tleman had  kissed  her.  Well,  there  was  no  use  her  looking 
at  him  like  that,  even  if  he  was  kind  of  free  in  his  talk,  for  he 
did  n't  care  what  he  said  any  more,  and  she  was  welcome 
to  make  trouble  for  him  if  she  liked,  for  when  he  left  her, 
he  was  going  straight  to  drown  himself  in  the  miller's  pond 
or  else  put  a  rope  around  his  neck. 

He  must  n't  do  that;  for  she  never  meant  to  say  a  word 
against  him  to  any  living  creature. 

So  she  did  n't?  Well,  anybody  could  believe  that  who  was 
simple  enough,  but  no  matter  for  that.  She  'd  made  trouble 
enough  for  him,  and  't  was  nobody's  fault  but  hers  that  he 
was  going  to  kill  himself,  for  he  loved  her  beyond  anything. 

He  had  seated  himself  on  a  bench,  and  sat  gazing  at  her 
with  a  mournful  look  in  his  good,  faithful  eyes,  while  his 
lips  trembled  as  if  he  were  struggling  with  tears. 


220  MARIE  GRUBBE 

She  could  not  help  going  over  to  him  and  laying  a  com- 
forting hand  on  his  shoulder. 

She  'd  best  not  do  that.  He  knew  very  well  that  when  she 
put  her  hand  on  him  and  said  a  few  words  quietly  to  her- 
self she  could  read  the  courage  out  of  him,  and  he  would  n't 
let  her.  Anyhow,  she  might  as  well  sit  down  by  him,  even 
if  he  was  nothing  but  a  low  peasant,  seeing  that  he  'd  be 
dead  before  nightfall. 

Marie  sat  down. 

Soren  looked  at  her  sideways  and  moved  a  little  far- 
ther away  on  the  bench.  Now  he  s'posed  he  'd  better  say 
good-by  and  thank  her  ladyship  for  all  her  kindness  in  the 
time  they  'd  known  each  other,  and  maybe  she  'd  say  good-by 
from  him  to  his  cousin  Anne — the  kitchen-maid  at  the 
manor. 

Marie  held  his  hand  fast. 

Well,  now  he  was  going. 

No,  he  must  stay;  there  was  no  one  in  all  the  world 
she  loved  like  him. 

Oh,  that  was  just  something  she  said  because  she  was 
afraid  he  'd  come  back  and  haunt  her,  but  she  might  make 
herself  easy  on  that  score,  for  he  did  n't  bear  any  grudge 
against  her  and  would  never  come  near  her  after  he  was 
dead ;  that  he  'd  both  promise  and  perform,  if  she  wouTd 
only  let  him  go. 

No,  she  would  never  let  him  go. 

Then  if  there  was  nothing  else  for  it  —  Soren  tore  his 
hand  away,  and  ran  out  of  the  brew-house  and  across  the 
yard. 

Marie  was  right  on  his  heels,  when  he  darted  into  the 
menservants'  quarters,  slammed  the  door  after  him,  and  set 
his  back  against  it. 


MARIE  GRUBBE  zzi 

"Open  the  door,  Soren,  open  the  door,  or  I  '11  call  the 
servants!" 

Soren  made  no  answer,  but  calmly  took  a  bit  of  pitchy 
twine  from  his  pocket  and  proceeded  to  tie  the  latch  with 
it,  while  he  held  the  door  with  his  knee  and  shoulder.  Her 
threat  of  calling  the  other  servants  did  not  alarm  him,  for 
he  knew  they  were  all  haymaking  in  the  outlying  fields. 

Marie  hammered  at  the  door  with  all  her  might. 

"Merciful  God !"  she  cried.  "Why  don't  you  come  out ! 
I  love  you  as  much  as  it 's  possible  for  one  human  being  to 
love  another!  I  love  you, loveyou,loveyou — oh, he  does  n't 
believe  me!  What  shall  I  do — miserable  wretch  that  I  am!" 

Soren  did  not  hear  her,  for  he  had  passed  through  the 
large  common  room  into  the  little  chamber  in  the  rear, 
where  he  and  the  gamekeeper  usually  slept.  This  was  where 
he  meant  to  carry  out  his  purpose,  but  then  it  occurred  to 
him  that  it  would  be  a  pity  for  the  gamekeeper;  it  would 
be  better  if  he  killed  himself  in  the  other  room,  where  a 
number  of  them  slept  together.  He  went  out  into  the  large 
room  again. 

"  Soren,  Soren,  let  me  in,  let  me  in !  Oh,  please  open  the 
door!  No,  no,  oh,  he  's  hanging  himself,  and  here  I  stand. 
Oh,  for  God  Almighty's  sake,  Soren, open  the  door!  I  have 
loved  you  from  the  first  moment  I  saw  you !  Can't  you  hear 
me?  There 's  no  one  I  'm  so  fond  of  as  you,  Soren,  no  one 
— no  one  in  the  world,  Soren!" 

"Is  't  true?"  asked  Soren's  voice,  hoarse  and  unrecog- 
nizable, close  to  the  door. 

"Oh,  God  be  praised  for  evermore!  Yes,  yes,  yes,  it  is 
true,  it  is  true;  I  swear  the  strongest  oath  there  is  in  the 
world  that  I  love  you  with  my  whole  soul.  Oh,  God  be 
praised  for  evermore — " 


222  MARIE  GRUBBE 

Soren  had  untied  the  twine,  and  the  door  flew  open.  Marie 
rushed  into  the  room  and  threw  herself  on  his  breast,  sob- 
bing and  laughing.  Soren  looked  embarrassed  and  hardly 
knew  how  to  take  it. 

"Oh,  Heaven  be  praised  that  I  have  you  once  more!" 
cried  Marie.  "  But  where  were  you  going  to  do  it  ?  Tell 
me! "  She  looked  curiously  around  the  room  at  the  unmade 
beds,  where  faded  bolsters,  matted  straw,  and  dirty  leather 
sheets  lay  in  disorderly  heaps. 

But  Soren  did  not  answer,  he  gazed  at  Marie  angrily. 
*'Whydidn'tyou  say  so  before?  "he  saidand  struckherarm. 

"Forgive  me,  Soren,  forgive  me!"  wept  Marie,  press- 
ing close  to  him,  while  her  eyes  sought  his  pleadingly. 

Soren  bent  down  wonderingly  and  kissed  her.  He  was 
utterly  amazed. 

"And  it's  neither  play-acting  nor  visions?"  he  asked, 
half  to  himself. 

Marie  smiled  and  shook  her  head. 

"The  devil!  Who 'd  V  thought— " 

At  first  the  relation  between  Marie  and  Soren  was  care- 
fully concealed,  but  when  Palle  Dyre  had  to  make  frequent 
trips  to  Randers  in  his  capacity  of  royal  commissioner,  his 
lengthy  absences  made  them  careless,  and  before  long  it  was 
no  secret  to  the  servants  at  Tjele.  When  the  pair  realized 
that  they  were  discovered,  they  took  no  pains  to  keep  the 
affair  hidden,  but  behaved  as  if  Palle  Dyre  were  at  the  other 
end  of  the  world  instead  of  at  Randers.  Erik  Grubbe  they 
recked  nothing  of.  When  he  threatened  Soren  with  his 
crutch,  Soren  would  threaten  him  with  his  fist,  and  when 
he  scolded  Marie  and  tried  to  bring  her  to  her  senses,  she 
would  tease  him  by  reeling  off  long  speeches  without  rais- 


MARIE  GRUBBE  223 

ing  her  voice,  as  was  necessary  now  if  he  were  to  hear 
her;  for  he  had  become  quite  deaf,  and  besides  he  was  wont 
to  protect  his  bald  head  with  a  skull-cap  with  long  earlaps, 
which  did  not  improve  his  hearing. 

It  was  no  fault  of  Soren's  that  Falle  Dyre,  too,  did  not 
learn  the  true  state  of  affairs ;  for  in  the  violence  of  his  youth- 
ful passion,  he  did  not  stick  at  visiting  Marie  even  when 
the  master  was  at  home.  At  dusk,  or  whenever  he  saw  his 
chance,  he  would  seek  her  in  the  manor-house  itself,  and 
on  more  than  one  occasion  it  was  only  the  fortunate  loca- 
tion of  the  stairway  that  saved  him  from  discovery. 

His  sentiment  for  Marie  was  not  always  the  same,  for 
once  in  awhile  he  would  be  seized  with  the  idea  that  she  was 
proud  and  must  despise  him.  Then  he  would  become  capri- 
cious, tyrannical,  and  unreasonable,  and  treated  her  much 
more  harshly  and  brutally  than  he  really  meant,  simply  in 
order  to  have  her  sweetness  and  submissiveness  chase  away 
his  doubts.  Usually,  however,  he  was  gentle  and  easily  led, 
so  long  as  Marie  was  careful  not  to  complain  too  much 
of  her  husband  and  her  father,  or  picture  herself  as  too 
much  abused;  for  then  he  would  wax  furious  and  swear  that 
he  would  blow  out  Palle  Dyre's  brains  and  put  his  hands 
around  Erik  Grubbe's  thin  neck,  and  he  would  be  so  intent 
on  carrying  out  his  threat  that  she  had  to  use  prayers  and 
tears  to  calm  him. 

The  most  serious  element  of  disturbance  in  their  rela- 
tion was  the  persistent  baiting  of  the  other  servants.  They 
were,  of  course,  highly  incensed  at  the  lovemaking  between 
mistress  and  coachman,  which  put  their  fellow-servant  in 
a  favored  position,  and — especially  in  the  absence  of  the 
master — gave  him  an  influence  to  which  he  had  no  more 
rightful  claim  than  they.  So  they  harassed  and  tortured  poor 


224  MARIE  GRUBBE 

Soren,  until  he  was  quite  beside  himself  and  thought  some- 
times that  he  would  run  away  and  sometimes  that  he  would 
kill  himself. 

The  maids  were,  of  course,  his  worst  tormentors. 

One  evening  they  were  busy  making  candles  in  the  hall 
at  Tjele.  Marie  was  standing  beside  the  straw-filled  vat  in 
which  the  copper  mould  was  placed.  She  was  busy  dipping 
the  wicks,  while  the  kitchen-maid,  Anne  Trinderup,Soren's 
cousin,  was  catching  the  drippings  in  an  earthenware  dish. 
The  cook  was  carrying  the  trays  back  and  forth,  hanging 
them  up  under  the  frame,  and  removing  the  candles  when 
they  were  thick  enough.  Soren  sat  at  the  hall  table  looking 
on.  He  wore  a  gold-laced  cap  of  red  cloth  trimmed  with 
black  feathers.  Before  him  stood  a  silver  tankard  full  of 
mead,  and  he  was  eating  a  large  piece  of  roast  meat,  which 
he  cut  in  strips  with  his  clasp-knife  on  a  small  pewter  plate. 
He  ate  very  deliberately,  sometimes  taking  a  draught  from 
his  cup,  and  now  and  then  answering  Marie's  smile  and 
nod  with  a  slow,  appreciative  movement  of  his  head. 

She  asked  him  if  he  was  comfortable. 

H'm,  it  might  have  been  better. 

Then  Anne  must  go  and  fetch  him  a  cushion  from  the 
maids'  room. 

She  obeyed,  but  not  without  a  great  many  signs  to  the 
other  maid  behind  Marie's  back. 

Did  Soren  want  a  piece  of  cake  ? 

Yes,  that  might  n't  be  out  of  the  way. 

Marie  took  a  tallow  dip  and  went  to  get  the  cake,  but 
did  not  return  immediately.  As  soon  as  she  was  out  of  the 
room,  the  two  girls  began  to  laugh  uproariously,  as  if  by 
agreement.  Soren  gave  them  an  angry,  sidelong  glance. 


MARIE  GRUBBE  225 

"Dear  Soren,"  said  Anne,  imitating  Marie's  voice  and 
manner,  "won't  you  have  a  serviette,  Soren,  to  wipe  your 
dainty  fingers,  Soren,  and  a  bolstered  foot-stool  for  your 
feet,  Soren  ?  And  are  you  sure  it 's  light  enough  for  you  to 
eat  with  that  one  thick  candle,  Soren,  or  shall  I  get  another 
for  you  ?  And  there  's  a  flowered  gown  hanging  up  in  mas- 
ter's chamber,  shan't  I  bring  it  in  ?  'T  would  look  so  fine 
with  your  red  cap,  Soren!" 

Soren  did  not  deign  to  answer. 

"Ah,  won't  your  lordship  speak  to  us?"  Anne  went  on. 
"Common  folk  like  us  would  fain  hear  how  the  gentry  talk, 
and  I  know  his  lordship  's  able,  for  you  've  heard.  Trine, 
that  his  sweetheart's  given  him  a  compliment-book,  and 
sure  it  can't  fail  that  such  a  fine  gentleman  can  read  and 
spell  both  backwards  and  forwards." 

Soren  struck  the  table  with  his  fist  and  looked  wrath- 
fully  at  her. 

"  Oh,  Soren,"  began  the  other  girl,  "I  '11  give  you  a  bad 
penny  for  a  kiss.  I  know  you  get  roast  meat  and  mead  from 
the  old—" 

At  that  moment  Marie  came  in  with  the  cake  and  set  it 
down  before  Soren,  but  he  threw  it  along  the  table. 

"Turn  those  women  out!"  he  shouted. 

But  the  tallow  would  get  cold. 

He  did  n't  care  if  it  did. 

The  maids  were  sent  away. 

Soren  flung  the  red  cap  from  him,  cursed  and  swore  and 
was  angry.  He  didn't  want  her  to  go  there  and  stufFhim 
with  food  as  if  he  was  an  unfattened  pig,  and  he  would  n't 
be  made  a  fool  of  before  people  with  her  making  play-actor 
caps  for  him,  and  there  'd  have  to  be  an  end  to  this.  He  'd 
have  her  know  that  he  was  the  man,  and  did  n't  care  to 


226  MARIE  GRUBBE 

have  her  coddle  him,  and  he  'd  never  meant  it  that  way.  He 
wanted  to  rule,  and  she  'd  have  to  mind  him;  he  wanted 
to  give,  and  she  should  take.  Of  course  he  knew  he  did  n't 
have  anything  to  give,  but  that  was  no  reason  why  she  should 
make  nothing  of  him  by  giving  to  him.  If  she  would  n't 
go  with  him  through  fire  and  flood,  they  'd  have  to  part. 
He  could  n't  stand  this.  She'd  have  to  give  herself  into  his 
power  and  run  away  with  him,  she  should  n't  sit  there  and 
be  your  ladyship  and  make  him  always  look  up  to  her.  He 
needed  to  have  her  be  a  dog  with  him — be  poor,  so  he 
could  be  good  to  her  and  have  her  thank  him,  and  she  must 
be  afraid  of  him  and  not  have  any  one  to  put  her  trust  in 
but  him. 

A  coach  was  heard  driving  in  at  the  gate.  They  knew 
it  must  be  Palle  Dyre,  and  Soren  stole  away  to  the  men- 
servants'  quarters. 

Three  of  the  men  were  sitting  thereon  their  beds,  besides 
the  gamekeeper,  Soren  Jensen,  who  stood  up. 

"Why,  there's  the  baron ! "  said  one  of  the  men,  as  the 
coachman  came  in. 

"  Hush,  don't  let  him  hear  you,"  exclaimed  the  other  with 
mock  anxiety. 

*'  Ugh,"  said  the  first  speaker,"  I  would  n't  be  in  his  shoes 
fer  's  many  rosenobles  as  you  could  stuff  in  a  mill-sack." 

Soren  looked  around  uneasily  and  sat  down  on  a  chest 
that  was  standing  against  the  wall. 

"It  must  be  an  awful  death,"  put  in  the  man  who  had 
not  yet  spoken,  and  shuddered. 

Soren  Gamekeeper  nodded  gravely  to  him  and  sighed. 

"What 're  you  talkin'  about?"  asked  Soren  with  pre- 
tended indifference. 

No  one  answered. 


MARIE  GRUBBE  227 

"Is 'there?"  said  the  first  man,  passing  his  fingers  across 
his  neck. 

"  Hush!"  replied  the  gamekeeper,  frowning  at  the  ques- 
tioner. 

"Ef  it 's  me  you  're  talkin'  about,"  said  Soren,  "don't 
set  there  an'  cackle,  but  say  what  you  got  to  say." 

"Ay,"  said  the  gamekeeper,  laying  great  stress  on  the 
word  and  looking  at  Soren  with  a  serious  air  of  making  up 
his  mind.  "Ay,  Soren,  it  is  you  we  're  talkin'  about.  Good 
Lord ! "  he  folded  his  hands  and  seemed  lost  in  dark  mus- 
ings. "  Soren,"  he  began, "  it 's  a  hangin  *  matter  what  ye  're 
doin',  and  I  give  you  warnin'" — he  spoke  as  if  reading 
from  a  book — "  mend  your  ways,  Soren !  There  stands  the 
gallows  and  the  block" — he  pointed  to  the  manor-house 
— "and  there  a  Christian  life  an'  a  decent  burial" — he 
waved  his  hand  in  the  direction  of  the  stable.  "For  you  must 
answer  with  your  neck,  that 's  the  sacred  word  of  the  law, 
ay,  so  it  is,  so  it  is,  think  o'  that!" 

"Huh!"  said  Soren  defiantly.  "Who '11  have  the  law  on 
mer 

"  Ay,"  repeated  the  gamekeeper  in  a  tone  as  if  something 
had  been  brought  forward  that  made  thesituation  very  much 
worse, "  Who  '11  have  the  law  on  you  ?  Soren,  Soren,  who '  11 
have  the  law  on  you  ?  But  devil  split  me,  you  're  a  fool," 
he  went  on  in  a  voice  from  which  the  solemnity  had  flown, 
*'  an'  it 's  fool's  play  to  be  runnin'  after  an  old  woman,  when 
there  's  such  a  risk  to  it.  If  she  'd  been  young!  An'  such  an 
ill-tempered  satan,  too — let  Blue-face  keep  ker  in  peace, 
there  's  other  women  in  the  world  besides  her,  Heaven  be 
praised." 

Soren  had  neither  courage  nor  inclination  to  explain  to 
them  that  he  could  no  longer  live  without  Marie  Grubbe. 


228  MARIE  GRUBBE 

In  fact,  he  was  almost  ashamed  of  his  foolish  passion,  and 
he  knew  that  if  he  confessed  the  truth,  it  would  only  mean 
that  the  whole  pack  of  men  and  maids  would  hound  him, 
so  he  lied  and  denied  his  love. 

"'T  is  a  wise  way  you're  pointin',  but  look  'ee  here, 
folks,  I  've  got  a  rix-dollar  when  you  have  n't  any,  an'  I  've 
got  a  bit  of  clothes  an'  another  bit  an'  a  whole  wagon-load, 
my  dear  friends,  and  once  I  get  my  purse  full,  I  '11  run  away 
just  as  quiet,  an'  then  one  o'  you  can  try  your  luck." 

''•All  well  an'  good,"  answered  Soren  Gamekeeper,"  but 
it's  stealin'  money  with  your  neck  in  a  noose,  I  say.  It's  all 
very  fine  to  have  clothes  and  silver  given  you  for  a  gift,  an' 
most  agreeable  to  lie  in  bed  here  an'  say  you  're  sick  an'  get 
wine  an'  roasted  meat  an'  all  kinds  o'  belly-cheer  sent  down, 
but  it  won't  go  long  here  with  so  many  people  round.  It  '11 
get  out  some  day,  an'  then  you  're  sure  o'  the  worst  that  can 
befall  any  one." 

"  Oh,  they  won't  let  things  come  to  such  a  pass,"  said 
Soren,  a  little  crestfallen. 

"Well,  they  'd  both  like  to  get  rid  o'  her,  and  her  sisters 
and  her  brothers-in-law  are  not  the  kind  o'  folks  who'd 
stand  between,  if  there  's  a  chance  o'  getting  her  disinher- 
ited." 

"O  jeminy,  she'd  help  me." 

"  You  think  so  ?  She  may  ha'  all  she  can  do  helpin'  her- 
self; she 's  been  in  trouble  too  often  fer  any  one  to  help  her 
wi'  so  much  as  a  bucket  o'  oats." 

"  Hey-day,"  said  Soren,  making  for  the  inner  chamber, 
"a  threatened  man  may  live  long." 

From  that  day  on,  Soren  was  pursued  by  hints  of  the 
gallows  and  the  block  and  the  red-hot  pincers  wherever 
he  went.  The  consequence  was  that  he  tried  to  drive  away 


MARIE  GRUBBE  229 

fear  and  keep  up  his  courage  with  brandy,  and  as  Marie 
often  gave  him  money,  he  was  never  forced  to  stay  sober. 
After  a  while,  he  grew  indifferent  to  the  threats,  but  he  was 
much  more  cautious  than  before,  kept  more  to  the  other 
servants,  and  sought  Marie  more  rarely. 

A  little  before  Christmas,  Palle  Dyre  came  home  and 
remained  there,  which  put  a  stop  to  the  meetings  between 
Soren  and  Marie.  In  order  to  make  the  other  servants 
believe  that  all  was  over,  and  so  keep  them  from  telling 
tales  to  the  master,  Soren  began  to  play  sweethearts  with 
Anne  Trinderup,  and  he  deceived  them  all,  even  Marie, 
although  he  had  told  her  of  his  plan. 

On  the  third  day  of  Christmas,  when  most  of  the  people 
were  at  church,  Soren  was  standing  by  the  wing  of  the 
manor-house,  playing  with  one  of  the  dogs,  when  sud- 
denly he  heard  Marie's  voice  calling  him,  it  seemed  to  him 
under  the  ground. 

He  turned  and  saw  Marie  standing  in  the  low  trap-door 
leading  to  the  salt-cellar.  She  was  pale  and  had  been  weep- 
ing, and  her  eyes  looked  wild  and  haunted  under  eyebrows 
that  were  drawn  with  pain. 

"Soren,"  she  said,  '*what  have  I  done,  since  you  no 
longer  love  me?" 

"But  I  do  love  you!  Can't  you  see  I  must  have  a  care, 
fer  they  're  all  thinkin'  o'  nothin'  but  how  they  can  make 
trouble  fer  me  an'  get  me  killed.  Don't  speak  to  me,  let  me 
go,  ef  ye  don't  want  to  see  me  dead ! " 

"Tell  me  no  lies,  Soren;  I  can  see  what  is  in  your  heart, 
and  I  wish  you  no  evil,  not  for  a  single  hour,  for  I  am  not 
your  equal  in  youth,  and  you  have  always  had  a  kindness 
for  Anne,  but  it 's  a  sin  to  let  me  see  it,  Soren,  you  should  n't 
do  that.  Don't  think  I  am  begging  you  to  take  me,  for 


230  MARIE  GRUBBE 

I  know  full  well  the  danger  't  would  put  you  in,  and  the 
labor  and  wear  and  tear  that  would  be  needed  if  we  were 
to  become  a  couple  by  ourselves,  and  'tis  a  thing  hardly  to 
be  wished  either  for  you  or  me,  though  I  can't  help  it." 

"  But  I  don't  want  Anne  now  or  ever,  the  country  jade 
she  is !  I  'm  fond  o'  you  an'  no  one  else  in  the  world,  let  'em 
call  you  old  and  wicked  an'  what  the  devil  they  please." 

"I  can't  believe  you,  Soren,  much  as  I  wish  to." 

"You  don't  believe  me?" 

"No,  Soren,  no.  My  only  wish  is  that  this  might  be  my 
grave,  the  spot  where  I  stand.  Would  that  I  could  close  the 
door  over  me  and  sit  down  to  sleep  forever  in  the  darkness." 

"I'll  make  you  believe  me!" 

"Never,  never!  there  is  nothing  in  all  the  world  you  can 
do  to  make  me  believe  you,  for  there  is  no  reason  in  it." 

"You  make  me  daft  wi'  your  talk,  and  you  '11  live  to  be 
sorry;  for  I  'm  goin'  to  make  you  believe  me,  even  ef  they 
burn  me  alive  or  do  me  to  death  fer  it." 

Marie  shook  her  head  and  looked  at  him  sadly. 

"Then  it  must  be,  come  what  may,"  said  Soren  and 
ran  away. 

He  stopped  at  the  kitchen  door,  asked  for  Anne  Trinde- 
rup,  and  was  told  that  she  was  in  the  garden.  Then  he  went 
over  to  the  menservants'  quarters,  took  a  loaded  old  gun 
of  the  gamekeeper's,  and  made  for  the  garden. 

Anne  was  cutting  kale  when  Soren  caught  sight  of  her. 
She  had  filled  her  apron  with  the  green  stuff,  and  was  hold- 
ing the  fingers  of  one  hand  up  to  her  mouth  to  warm  them 
with  her  breath.  Slowly  Soren  stole  up  to  her,  his  eyes  fixed 
on  the  edge  of  her  dress,  for  he  did  not  want  to  see  her  face. 

Suddenly  Anne  turned  and  saw  Soren.  His  dark  looks, 
the  gun,  and  his  stealthy  approach  alarmed  her,  and  she 


MARIE  GRUBBE  231 

called  to  him :  "  Oh,  don't,  Soren,  please  don't ! "  He  lifted 
the  gun,  and  Anne  rushed  off  through  the  snow  with  a  wild, 
shrill  scream. 

The  shot  fell;  Anne  went  on  running,  then  put  her  hand 
to  her  cheek  and  sank  down  with  a  cry  of  horror. 

Soren  threw  down  the  gun  and  ran  to  the  side  of  the 
house.  He  found  the  trap-door  closed.  Then  on  to  the  front 
door,  in  and  through  all  the  rooms,  till  he  found  Marie. 

"'Tis  all  over!"  he  whispered,  pale  as  a  corpse. 

*'Are  they  after  you,  Soren?" 

"No,  I've  shot  her." 

"Anne?  Oh,  what  will  become  of  us!  Run,  Soren,  run 
— take  a  horse  and  get  away,  quick,  quick!  Take  the  gray 
one!" 

Soren  fled.  A  moment  later  he  was  galloping  out  of  the 
gate.  He  was  scarcely  halfway  to  Foulum,  when  people 
came  back  from  church.  Palle  Dyre  at  once  asked  where 
Soren  was  going. 

"There  is  some  one  lying  out  in  the  garden,  moaning," 
said  Marie.  She  trembled  in  every  limb  and  could  hardly 
stand  on  her  feet. 

Palle  and  one  of  the  men  carried  Anne  in.  Her  screams 
could  be  heard  far  and  wide,  but  the  hurt  was  not  really 
serious.  The  gun  had  only  been  loaded  with  grapeshot,  of 
which  a  few  had  gone  through  her  cheek  and  a  few  more 
had  settled  in  her  shoulder,  but  as  she  bled  freely  and  cried 
piteously,a  coach  was  sent  to  Viborg  for  the  barber-surgeon. 

When  she  had  gathered  her  wits  together  a  little,  Palle 
Dyre  questioned  her  about  how  it  had  happened,  and  was 
told  not  only  that,  but  the  whole  story  of  the  affair  be- 
tween Soren  and  Marie. 

As  soon  as  he  came  out  of  the  sick-room  all  the  servant. 


232  MARIE  GRUBBE 

crowded  around  him  and  tried  to  tell  him  the  same  tale, 
for  they  were  afraid  that  if  they  did  not,  they  might  be  pun- 
ished. Palle  refused  to  listen  to  them,  saying  it  was  all  gos- 
sip and  stupid  slander.  The  fact  was,  the  whole  thing  was 
extremely  inconvenient  to  him :  divorce,  journeys  to  court, 
lawsuit,  and  various  expenditures — he  preferred  to  avoid 
them.  No  doubt  the  story  could  be  hushed  up  and  smoothed 
over  and  all  be  as  before.  Marie's  unfaithfulness  did  not 
in  itself  affect  him  much;  in  fact,  he  thought  it  might  be 
turned  to  advantage,  by  giving  him  more  power  over  her 
and  possibly  also  over  Erik  Grubbe,  who  would  surely  be 
anxious  to  keep  the  marriage  unbroken,  even  though  it  had 
been  violated. 

When  he  had  talked  with  Erik  Grubbe,  however,  he 
hardly  knew  what  to  think,  for  he  could  not  make  out  the 
old  man.  He  seemed  furious,  and  had  instantly  sent  off 
four  mounted  men  with  orders  to  take  Soren  dead  or  alive, 
which  was  certainly  not  a  good  way  of  keeping  matters 
dark;  for  many  other  things  might  come  up  in  a  trial  for 
attempted  murder. 

In  the  evening  of  the  following  day,  three  of  the  men 
returned.  They  had  caught  Soren  at  Dallerup,  where  the 
gray  horse  had  fallen  under  him,  and  had  brought  him  to 
Skanderborg,  where  he  was  now  held  for  trial.  The  fourth 
man  had  lost  his  way  and  did  not  return  until  a  day  later. 

In  the  middle  of  January,  Palle  Dyre  and  Marie  moved 
to  Norbæk  manor.  He  thought  the  servants  would  more 
easily  forget  when  their  mistress  was  out  of  their  sight,  but 
in  the  latter  part  of  February  they  were  again  reminded 
of  the  affair,  when  a  clerk  came  from  Skanderborg  to  ask 
whether  Soren  had  been  seen  in  the  neighborhood,  for  he 
had  broken  out  of  the  arrest.  The  clerk  came  too  early,  for 


MARIE  GRUBBE  233 

not  until  a  fortnight  later  did  Soren  venture  to  visit  Nor- 
bæk one  night,  and  to  rap  on  Marie's  chamber  window.  His 
first  question,  when  Marie  opened  it,  was  whether  Anne 
was  dead,  and  it  seemed  to  relieve  his  mind  of  a  heavy 
burden  when  he  heard  that  she  had  quite  recovered.  He 
lived  in  a  deserted  house  on  Gassum  heath  and  often  came 
again  to  get  money  and  food.  The  servants  as  well  as  Palle 
Dyre  knew  that  he  was  in  the  habit  of  visiting  the  house, 
but  Palle  took  no  notice,  and  the  servants  did  not  trouble 
themselves  in  the  matter,  when  they  saw  the  master  was 
indifferent. 

At  haymaking  time,  the  master  and  mistress  moved  back 
to  Tjele,  where  Soren  did  not  dare  to  show  himself.  His 
absence,  added  to  her  father's  taunts  and  petty  persecu- 
tion, irritated  and  angered  Marie,  until  she  gave  her  feelings 
vent  by  scolding  Erik  Grubbe,  in  private,  two  or  three 
times,  as  if  he  had  been  her  foot-boy.  The  result  was  that, 
in  the  middle  of  August,  Erik  Grubbe  sent  a  letter  of  com- 
plaint to  the  King.  After  recounting  at  great  length  all  her 
misdeeds,  which  were  a  sin  against  God,  a  scandal  before 
men,  and  an  offence  to  all  womanhood,  he  ended  the  epistle 
saying: 

Whereas  she  hath  thus  grievously  disobeyed  and  miscon- 
ducted herself,  I  am  under  the  necessity  of  disinheriting 
her,and  I  do  humbly  beseech  Your  Royal  Majesty  that  You 
will  graciously  be  pleased  to  ratify  and  confirm  this  my 
action,  and  that  Your  Royal  Majesty  will  furthermore  be 
pleased  to  issue  Your  most  gracious  command  to  Governor 
Mogens  Scheel,  that  he  may  make  inquiry  concerning  her 
aforesaid  behavior  toward  me  and  toward  her  husband, 
and  that  because  of  her  wickedness,  she  be  confined  at 


234  MARIE  GRUBBE 

Borringholm,  the  expense  to  be  borne  by  me,  in  order  that 
the  wrath  and  visitation  of  God  may  be  upon  her  as  a  dis- 
obedient creature,  a  warning  unto  others,  and  her  own 
soul  possibly  unto  salvation.  Had  I  not  been  hard  pressed, 
I  should  not  have  made  so  bold  as  to  come  before  You  with 
this  supplication,  but  I  live  in  the  most  humble  hope  of 
Your  Royal  Majesty's  most  gracious  answer,  acknowledg- 
ment, and  aid,  which  God  shall  surely  reward.  I  live  and 
die 

Your  Royal  Majesty's 

Most  humble  and  most  devoted 
true  hereditary  subject 

ERIK  GRUBBE. 
Tjele,  August  14,  1690. 

The  King  desired  a  statement  in  the  matter  from  the  Hon- 
orable Palle  Dyre,  and  this  was  to  the  effect  that  Marie 
did  not  conduct  herself  toward  him  as  befitted  an  honest 
wife,  wherefore  he  petitioned  the  King  to  have  the  marriage 
annulled  without  process  of  law.  This  was  not  granted, 
and  the  couple  were  divorced  by  a  decree  of  the  court,  on 
March  twenty-third,  sixteen  hundred  and  ninety-one.  Erik 
Grubbe's  supplication  that  he  might  lock  her  up  and  dis- 
inherit her  was  also  refused,  and  he  had  to  content  him- 
self with  keeping  her  a  captive  at  Tjele,  strictly  guarded 
by  peasants,  while  the  trial  lasted,  and  indeed  it  must  be 
admitted  that  he  was  the  last  person  who  had  any  right  to 
cast  at  her  the  stone  of  righteous  retribution. 

As  soon  as  judgment  had  been  pronounced,  Marie  left 
Tjele  with  a  poor  bundle  of  clothes  in  her  hand.  She  met 
Soren  on  the  heath  to  the  south,  and  he  became  her  third 
husband. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

ABOUT  a  month  later,  on  an  April  evening,  there  was 
.  a  crowd  gathered  outside  of  Ribe  cathedral.  The 
Church  Council  was  in  session, and  it  was  customary,  while 
that  lasted,  to  light  the  tapers  in  church  three  times  a  week, 
at  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening.  The  gentry  and  persons  of 
quality  in  town  as  well  as  the  respectable  citizens  would 
assemble  and  walk  up  and  down  in  the  nave,  while  a  skil- 
ful musician  would  play  for  them  on  the  organ.  The  poorer 
people  had  to  be  content  to  listen  from  the  outside. 

Among  the  latter  were  Marie  Grubbe  and  Soren. 

Their  clothing  was  coarse  and  ragged,  and  they  looked  as 
if  they  had  not  had  enough  to  eat  every  day;  and  no  wonder, 
for  it  was  not  a  profitable  trade  they  plied.  In  an  inn  between 
Aarhus  and  Randers,  Soren  had  met  a  poor  sick  German, 
who  for  twenty  marks  had  sold  him  a  small,  badly  battered 
hurdy-gurdy,  a  motley  fool's  suit,  and  an  old  checked  rug. 
With  these  he  and  Marie  gained  their  livelihood,  going  from 
market  to  market;  she  would  turn  the  hurdy-gurdy,  and 
he  would  stand  on  the  checked  rug,  dressed  in  the  motley 
clothes, lifting  and  doing  tricks  with  some  huge  iron  weights 
and  long  iron  bars,  which  they  borrowed  of  the  tradesmen. 

It  was  the  market  that  had  brought  them  to  Ribe. 

They  were  standing  near  the  door,  where  a  faint,  faded 
strip  of  light  shone  on  their  pale  faces  and  the  dark  mass  of 
heads  behind  them.  People  were  coming  singly  or  in  pairs 
or  small  groups,  talking  and  laughing  in  well-bred  man- 
ner to  the  very  threshold  of  the  church,  but  there  they  sud- 
denly became  silent,  gazed  gravely  straight  before  them, 
and  changed  their  gait. 

Soren  was  seized  with  a  desire  to  see  more  of  the  show, 


236  MARIE  GRUBBE 

and  whispered  to  Marie  that  they  ought  to  go  in;  there  was 
no  harm  in  trying,  nothing  worse  could  happen  to  them 
than  to  be  turned  out.  Marie  shuddered  inwardly  at  the 
thought  that  she  should  be  turned  out  from  a  place  where 
common  artisans  could  freely  go,  and  she  held  back  Soren, 
who  was  trying  to  draw  her  on';  but  suddenly  she  changed 
her  mind,  pressed  eagerly  forward,  pulling  Soren  after  her, 
and  walked  in  without  the  slightest  trace  of  shrinking  ti- 
midity or  stealthy  caution;  indeed,  she  seemed  determined 
to  be  noticed  and  turned  out.  At  first  no  one  stopped  them, 
but  just  as  she  was  about  to  step  into  the  well-lit,  crowded 
nave,  a  church  warden,  who  was  stationed  there,  caught 
sight  of  them.  After  casting  one  horrified  glance  up  through 
the  church,  he  advanced  quickly  upon  them  with  lifted  and 
outstretched  hands,  as  if  pushing  them  before  him  to  the 
very  threshold,  and  over  it.  He  stood  there  for  a  moment, 
looking  reproachfully  at  the  crowd,  as  if  he  blamed  it  for 
what  had  occurred,  then  returned  with  measured  tread,  and 
took  up  his  post,  shuddering. 

The  crowd  met  the  ejected  ones  with  a  burst  of  jeering 
laughter  and  a  shower  of  mocking  questions,  which  made 
Soren  growl  and  look  around  savagely,  but  Marie  was  con- 
tent; she  had  bent  to  receive  the  blow  which  the  respect- 
able part  of  society  always  has  ready  for  such  as  he,  and  the 
blow  had  fallen. 

On  the  night  before  St.  Olufs  market,  four  men  were  sitting 
in  one  of  the  poorest  inns  at  Aarhus,  playing  cards. 

One  of  the  players  was  Soren.  His  partner,  a  handsome 
man  with  coal-black  hair  and  a  dark  skin,  was  known  as  Jens 
Bottom,  and  was  a  juggler.  The  other  two  members  of  the 
party  were  joint  owners  of  a  mangy  bear.  Both  were  unusu- 


MARIE  GRUBBE  237 

ally  hideous :  one  had  a  horrible  harelip,  while  the  other  was 
one-eyed,  heavy  jowled,  and  pock-marked,  and  was  known 
as  Rasmus  Squint,  plainly  because  the  skin  around  the  in- 
jured eye  was  drawn  together  in  such  a  manner  as  to  give 
him  the  appearance  of  being  always  ready  to  peer  through 
a  key-hole  or  some  such  small  aperture. 

The  players  were  sitting  at  one  end  of  the  long  table 
which  ran  under  the  window  and  held  a  candle  and  an  ear- 
less cruse.  Opposite  them  was  a  folding-table,  fastened 
up  against  the  wall  with  an  iron  hook.  A  bar  ran  across  the 
other  end  of  the  room,  and  a  thin,  long-wicked  candle, 
stuck  into  an  old  inverted  funnel,  threw  a  sleepy  light  over 
the  shelf  above,  where  some  large,  square  flasks  of  brandy 
and  bitters,  some  quart  and  pint  measures, and  half-a-dozen 
glasses  had  plenty  of  room  beside  a  basket  full  of  mustard 
seed  and  a  large  lantern  with  panes  of  broken  glass.  In  one 
corner  outside  of  the  bar  sat  Marie  Grubbe,  knitting  and 
drowsing,  and  in  the  other  sat  a  man  with  body  bent  for- 
ward and  elbows  resting  on  his  knees.  He  seemed  intent  on 
pulling  his  black  felt  hat  as  far  down  over  his  head  as  pos- 
sible, and  when  that  was  accomplished,  he  would  clutch 
the  wide  brim,  slowly  work  the  hat  up  from  his  head  again, 
his  eyes  pinched  together  and  the  corners  of  his  mouth 
twitching,  probably  with  the  pain  of  pulling  his  hair,  then 
presently  begin  all  over  again. 

"Then  this  is  the  last  game  to  play,"  said  Jens  Bottom, 
whose  lead  it  was. 

Rasmus  Squint  pounded  the  table  with  his  knuckles  as 
a  sign  to  his  partner,  Salmand,  to  cover. 

Salmand  played  two  of  trumps. 

"A  two!"  cried  Rasmus;  "have  you  nothing  but  twos 
and  threes  in  your  hand?" 


238  MARIE  GRUBBE 

"  Lord,"  growled  Salmand,  "there's  always  been  poor 
folks  and  a  few  beggars." 

Soren  trumped  with  a  six. 

"Oh,  oh,"  Rasmus  moaned,  "are  you  goin'  to  let  him 
have  it  for  a  six?  What  the  devil  are  you  so  stingy  with 
your  old  cards  for,  Salmand?" 

He  played,  and  Soren  won  the  trick. 

*■'-  Kerstie  Meek,"  said  Soren,  playing  four  of  hearts. 

"And  her  half-crazy  sister,"  continued  Rasmus,  putting 
on  four  of  diamonds. 

"  Maybe  an  ace  is  good  enough,"  said  Soren,  covering 
with  ace  of  trumps. 

*'Play,  man,  play,  if  you  never  played  before!"  cried 
Rasmus. 

"That's  too  costly,"  whimpered  Salmand,  taking  his 
turn. 

"Then  I'll  put  on  my  seven  and  another  seven,"  said 
Jens. 

Soren  turned  the  trick, 

*' And  then  nine  of  trumps,"  Jens  went  on,  leading. 

"Then  I  '11  have  to  bring  on  my  yellow  nag,"  cried  Sal- 
mand, playing  two  of  hearts. 

"You  '11  never  stable  it,"  laughed  Soren,  covering  with 
four  of  spades. 

"  Forfeit ! "  roared  Rasmus  Squint,  throwing  down  his 
cards.  "Forfeit  with  two  of  hearts,  that's  a  good  day's  work! 
Nay,  nay,  't  is  a  good  thing  we  're  not  goin'  to  play  any 
more.  Now  let  them  kiss  the  cards  that  have  won." 

They  began  to  count  the  tricks,  and  while  they  were 
busy  with  this,  a  stout,  opulently  dressed  man  came  in.  He 
went  at  once  to  the  folding-table,  let  it  down,  and  took  a 
seat  nearest  the  wall.  As  he  passed  the  players,  he  touched 


MARIE  GRUBBE  239 

his  hat  with  his  silver-knobbed  cane,  and  said :  "  Good  even 
to  the  house!" 

"Thanks,"  they  replied,  and  all  four  spat. 

The  newcomer  took  out  a  paper  full  of  tobacco  and 
a  long  clay  pipe,  filled  it,  and  pounded  the  table  with  his 
cane. 

A  barefoot  girl  brought  him  a  brazier  full  of  hot  coals 
and  a  large  earthenware  cruse  with  a  pewter  cover.  He  took 
out  from  his  vest-pocket  a  pair  of  small  copper  pincers, 
which  he  used  to  pick  up  bits  of  coal  and  put  them  in  his 
pipe,  drew  the  cruse  to  him,  leaned  back,  and  made  himself 
as  comfortable  as  the  small  space  would  allow. 

"  How  much  do  you  have  to  pay  for  a  paper  o'  tobacco 
like  the  one  you've  got  there,  master?"  asked  Salmand, 
as  he  began  to  fill  his  little  pipe  from  a  sealskin  pouch  held 
together  with  a  red  string. 

"Sixpence,"  said  the  man,  adding,  as  if  to  apologize  for 
such  extravagance,  "it's  very  good  for  the  lungs,  as  you 
might  say." 

"How's  business?"  Salmand  went  on,  striking  fire  to 
light  his  pipe. 

"Well  enough,  and  thank  you  kindly  for  asking,  well 
enough,  but  I  'm  getting  old,  as  you  might  say." 

"  Well,"  said  Rasmus  Squint,  "but  then  you  've  no  need 
to  run  after  customers,  since  they  're  all  brought  to  you." 

"Ay,"  laughed  the  man, "in  respect  of  that,  it's  a  good 
business,  and,  moreover,  you  don't  have  to  talk  yourself 
hoarse  persuading  folks  to  buy  your  wares;  they  have  to 
take  'em  as  they  come,  they  can't  pick  and  choose." 

"And  they  don't  want  anything  thrown  in,"  Rasmus 
went  on,  "and  don't  ask  for  more  than  what's  rightly 
comin'  to  'em." 


240  MARIE  GRUBBE 

"  Master,  do  they  scream  much  ? "  asked  Soren  in  a  half 
whisper. 

"Well,  they  don't  often  laugh." 

"Faugh,  what  an  ugly  business!" 

"Then  there  's  no  use  my  counting  on  one  of  you  for 
help,  I  suppose." 

"Are  you  countin'  on  us  to  help  you?"  asked  Rasmus, 
and  rose  angrily. 

"I  'm  not  counting  on  anything,  but  I  'm  looking  for  a 
young  man  to  help  me  and  to  take  the  business  after  me, 
that 's  what  I  'm  looking  for,  as  you  might  say." 

"And  what  wages  might  a  man  get  for  that?  "asked  Jens 
Bottom,  earnestly. 

"Fifteen  dollars  per  annum  in  ready  money,  one-third 
of  the  clothing,  and  one  mark  out  of  every  dollar  earned 
according  to  the  fixed  rate." 

"And  what  might  that  be?" 

"The  rate  is  this,  that  I  get  five  dollars  for  whipping 
at  the  post,  seven  dollars  for  whipping  from  town,  four  dol- 
lars for  turning  out  of  the  county,  and  the  same  for  brand- 
ing with  hot  iron." 

"And  for  the  bigger  work?" 

"Alack,  that  does  not  come  so  often,  but  it 's  eight  dol- 
lars for  cutting  off  a  man's  head,  that  is  with  an  axe :  with 
a  sword  it's  ten,  but  that  may  not  occur  once  in  seven 
years.  Hanging  is  fourteen  rix-dollars,  ten  for  the  job  itself 
and  four  for  taking  the  body  down  from  the  gallows.  Break- 
ing on  the  wheel  is  seven  dollars,  that  is  for  a  whole  body, 
but  I  must  find  the  stake  and  put  it  up  too.  And  now,  is 
there  anything  more?  Ay,  crushing  arms  and  legs  accord- 
ing to  the  new  German  fashion  and  breaking  on  the  wheel, 
that 's  fourteen — that 's  fourteen,  and  for  quartering  and 


MARIE  GRUBBE  241 

breaking  on  the  wheel  I  get  twelve,  and  then  there  's  pinch- 
ing with  red-hot  pincers,  that 's  two  dollars  for  every  pinch, 
and  that 's  all;  there  's  nothing  more  except  such  extras  as 
may  come  up." 

"It  can't  be  very  hard  to  learn,  is  it?" 

"The  business?  Well,  any  one  can  do  it,  but  how — 
that 's  another  matter.  There  's  a  certain  knack  about  it 
that  one  gets  with  practice,  just  like  any  other  handicraft. 
There  's  whipping  at  the  post,  that 's  not  so  easy,  if  't  is 
to  be  done  right, — three  flicks  with  each  whip,  quick  and 
light  like  waving  a  bit  of  cloth,  and  yet  biting  the  flesh 
with  due  chastisement,  as  the  rigor  of  the  law  and  the  bet- 
terment of  the  sinner  require." 

"I  think  I  might  do  it,"  said  Jens,  sighing  as  he  spoke. 

"  Here  's  the  earnest-penny,"  tempted  the  man  at  the 
folding-table,  putting  a  few  bright  silver  coins  out  before 
him. 

"Think  well!"  begged  Soren. 

"Think  and  starve, wait  and  freeze — that 's  two  pair  of 
birds  that  are  well  mated,"  answered  Jens,  rising.  "Fare- 
well as  an  honest  and  true  guild-man,"  he  went  on,  giving 
Soren  his  hand. 

"Farewell,  guild-mate,  and  godspeed,"  replied  Soren. 

He  went  round  the  table  with  the  same  farewell  and 
got  the  same  answer.  Then  he  shook  hands  with  Marie  and 
with  the  man  in  the  corner,  who  had  to  let  go  his  hat  for  the 
moment. 

Jens  proceeded  to  the  man  at  the  folding-table,  who  set- 
tled his  face  in  solemn  folds  and  said:  "I,  Master  Herman 
Koppen,  executioner  in  the  town  of  Aarhus,  take  you  in 
the  presence  of  these  honest  men,  a  journeyman  to  be  and 
a  journeyman's  work  to  perform,  to  the  glory  of  God,  your 


242  MARIE  GRUBBE 

own  preferment,  and  the  benefit  of  myself  and  the  hon- 
orable office  of  executioner,"  and  as  he  made  this  unneces- 
sarily pompous  speech,  which  seemed  to  give  him  immense 
satisfaction,  he  pressed  the  bright  earnest-penny  into  Jens's 
hand.  Then  he  rose,  took  off  his  hat,  bowed,  and  asked 
whether  he  might  not  have  the  honor  of  offering  the  hon- 
est men  who  had  acted  as  witnesses  a  drink  of  half  and 
half. 

The  three  men  at  the  long  table  looked  inquiringly  at 
one  another,  then  nodded  as  with  one  accord. 

The  barefoot  girl  brought  a  clumsy  earthenware  cruse, 
and  three  green  glasses  on  which  splotches  of  red  and  yel- 
low stars  were  still  visible.  She  set  the  cruse  down  before 
Jens  and  the  glasses  before  Soren  and  the  bear-baiters, 
and  fetched  a  large  wooden  mug  from  which  she  filled  first 
the  glasses  of  the  three  honest  men,  then  the  earthenware 
cruse,  and  finally  Master  Herman's  private  goblet. 

Rasmus  drew  his  glass  toward  him  and  spat,  the  two 
others  followed  suit,  and  they  sat  a  while  looking  at  one 
another,  as  if  none  of  them  liked  to  begin  drinking.  Mean- 
while Marie  Grubbe  came  up  to  Soren  and  whispered  some- 
thing in  his  ear,  to  which  he  replied  by  shaking  his  head. 
She  tried  to  whisper  again,  but  Soren  would  not  listen.  For 
a  moment  she  stood  uncertain,  then  caught  up  the  glass  and 
emptied  the  contents  on  the  floor,  saying  that  he  must  n't 
drink  the  hangman's  liquor.  Soren  sprang  up,  seized  her 
arm  in  a  hard  grip,  and  pushed  her  out  of  the  door,  gruffly 
ordering  her  to  go  upstairs.  Then  he  called  for  a  half  pint 
of  brandy  and  resumed  his  place. 

"I  'd  like  to  ha'  seen  my  Abelone — God  rest  her  soul — 
try  a  thing  like  that  on  me,"  said  Rasmus,  drinking. 

"  Ay,"  said  Salmand,  "  she  can  thank  the  Lord  she  is  n't 


MARIE  GRUBBE  243 

my  woman,  I  'd  ha'  given  her  somethin'  else  to  think  o' 
besides  throwin'  the  gifts  o'  God  in  the  dirt." 

"But  look  'ee,  Salmand,"  said  Rasmus,  with  a  sly  glance 
in  Master  Herman's  direction,  "  your  wife  she  is  n't  a  fine 
lady  of  the  gentry,  she  's  only  a  poor  common  thing  like 
the  rest  of  us,  and  so  she  gets  her  trouncin'  when  she  needs 
it,  as  the  custom  is  among  common  people;  but  if  instead 
she'd  been  one  of  the  quality,  you  'd  never  ha'  dared  to  flick 
her  noble  back,  you  'd  ha'  let  her  spit  you  in  the  face,  if  she 
pleased." 

"  No,  by  the  Lord  Harry,  I  would  n't,"  swore  Salmand, 
"  I  'd  ha'  dressed  her  down  till  she  could  n't  talk  or  see,  and 
I  'd  ha'  picked  the  maggots  out  o'  her.  You  just  ask  mine  if 
she  knows  the  thin  strap  bruin 's  tied  up  in — you  '11  see  it  '11 
make  her  back  ache  just  to  think  of  it.  But  if  she  'd  tried 
to  come  as  I  'm  sitting  here  and  pour  my  liquor  on  the  floor, 
I'd  ha'  trounced  her,if  she  was  the  emperor's  own  daughter, 
as  long  's  I  could  move  a  hand,  or  there  was  breath  in  my 
body.  What  is  she  thinking  about, — the  fine  doll, — does 
she  think  she  's  better  than  anybody  else's  wife,  since  she  's 
got  the  impudence  to  come  here  and  put  shame  on  her  hus- 
band in  the  company  of  honest  men  ?  Does  she  s'pose  it  'ud 
hurt  her  if  you  came  near  her  after  drinkin'  the  liquor  of 
this  honorable  man?  Mind  what  I  say,  Soren,  and" — he 
made  a  motion  as  if  he  were  beating  some  one — "or  else 
you  '11  never  in  the  wide  world  get  any  good  out  of  her." 

"If  he  only  dared,"  teased  Rasmus,  looking  at  Soren. 

"Careful,  Squint,  or  I  '11  tickle  your  hide." 

With  that  he  left  them.  When  he  came  into  the  room 
where  Marie  was,  he  closed  the  door  after  him  with  a  kick, 
and  began  to  untie  the  rope  that  held  their  little  bundle  of 
clothing. 


244  MARIE  GRUBBE 

Marie  was  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  rough  board  frame 
that  served  as  a  bed.  "  Are  you  angry,  Soren  ? "  she  said. 

"I  '11  show  you,"  said  Soren. 

''  Have  a  care,  Soren !  No  one  yet  has  offered  me  blows 
since  I  came  of  age,  and  I  will  not  bear  it." 

He  replied  that  she  could  do  as  she  pleased,  he  meant  to 
beat  her. 

"Soren,  for  God's  sake, for  God's  sake, don't  lay  violent 
hands  on  me,  you  will  repent  it!" 

But  Soren  caught  her  by  the  hair,  and  beat  her  with  the 
rope.  She  did  not  cry  out,  but  merely  moaned  under  the 
blows. 

"There!"  said  Soren,  and  threw  himself  on  the  bed. 

Marie  lay  still  on  the  floor.  She  was  utterly  amazed  at 
herself.  She  expected  to  feel  a  furious  hatred  against  Soren 
rising  in  her  soul,  an  implacable,  relentless  hatred,  but 
no  such  thing  happened.  Instead  she  felt  a  deep,  gentle 
sorrow,  a  quiet  regret  at  a  hope  that  had  burst — how  could 
he? 


■* 

i 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

IN  May  of  sixteen  hundred  and  ninety-five  Erik  Grubbe 
died  at  the  age  of  eighty-seven.  The  inheritance  was 
promptly  divided  among  his  three  daughters,  but  Marie  did 
not  get  much,  as  the  old  man,  before  his  death,  had  issued 
various  letters  of  credit  in  favor  of  the  other  two,  thus  with- 
drawing from  the  estate  the  greater  part  of  his  property  to 
the  disadvantage  of  Marie. 

Even  so,  her  portion  was  sufficient  to  make  her  and  her 
husband  respectable  folk  instead  of  beggars, and  with  a  little 
common  sense,  they  might  have  secured  a  fair  income  to 
the  end  of  their  days.  Unluckily  Soren  made  up  his  mind 
to  become  a  horse-dealer,  and  it  was  not  long  before  he  had 
squandered  most  of  the  money.  Still  there  was  enough  left 
so  they  could  buy  the  Burdock  House  at  the  Falster  ferry. 

In  the  early  days  they  had  a  hard  time,  and  Marie  often 
had  to  lend  a  hand  at  the  oars,  but  later  on  her  chief  task 
was  to  mind  the  ale-house  which  was  a  part  of  the  ferry 
privileges.  On  the  whole,  they  were  very  happy,  for  Marie 
still  loved  her  husband  above  everything  else  in  the  world, 
and  though  he  would  sometimes  get  drunk  and  beat  her, 
she  did  not  take  it  much  to  heart.  She  realized  that  she  had 
enrolled  in  a  class  where  such  things  were  an  every-day 
matter,  and  though  she  would  sometimes  feel  irritated,  she 
would  soon  get  over  it  by  telling  herself  that  this  man 
who  could  be  so  rough  and  hard  was  the  same  Soren  who 
had  once  shot  a  human  being  for  her  sake. 

The  people  they  ferried  over  were  generally  peasants  and 
cattle-men,  but  occasionally  there  would  come  some  one 
who  was  a  little  higher  up  in  the  world.  One  day  Sti  Hogh 
passed  that  way.  Marie  and  her  husband  rowed  him  across, 


246  MARIE  GRUBBE 

and  he  sat  in  the  stern  of  the  boat,  where  he  could  talk  with 
Marie,  who  had  the  oar  nearest  him.  He  recognized  her 
at  once,  but  showed  no  signs  of  surprise;  perhaps  he  had 
known  that  he  would  find  her  there.  Marie  had  to  look  twice 
before  she  knew  him,  for  he  was  very  much  changed.  His 
face  was  red  and  bloated,  his  eyes  were  watery;  his  lower 
jaw  dropped,  as  if  the  corners  of  his  mouth  were  paralyzed, 
his  legs  were  thin,  and  his  stomach  hung  down, — in  short, 
he  bore  every  mark  of  a  life  spent  in  stupefying  debauch- 
ery of  every  kind,  and  this  had,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  been  his 
chief  pursuit  ever  since  he  left  Marie.  As  far  as  the  external 
events  went,  he  had  for  a  time  been  gentilhomme  and  maitre 
d! hotel  in  the  house  of  a  royal  cardinal  in  Rome,  had  gone 
over  to  the  Catholic  Church,  had  joined  his  brother.  Just 
Hogh,  then  ambassador  to  Nimeguen,  had  been  converted 
back  to  the  Lutheran  religion  again,  and  returned  to  Den- 
mark, where  he  was  living  on  the  bounty  of  his  brother. 

"  Is  this,"  he  asked,  nodding  in  the  direction  of  Soren, — - 
"is  this  the  one  I  foretold  was  to  come  after  me?" 

"Ay,  he  is  the  one,"  said  Marie,  hesitating  a  little,  for 
she  would  have  preferred  not  to  reply. 

"And  he  is  greater  than  I — was?"  he  went  on,  straight- 
ening himself  in  his  seat. 

"Nay,  you  can't  be  likened  to  him,  your  lordship,"  she 
answered,  affecting  the  speech  of  a  peasant  woman. 

"Oh,  ay,  so  it  goes — you  and  I  have  indeed  cheapened 
ourselves — we've  sold  ourselves  to  life  for  less  pay  than  we 
had  thought  to,  you  in  one  manner,  1  in  another." 

"But  your  lordship  is  surely  well  enough  off?"  asked 
Marie,  in  the  same  simple  tone. 

"Well  enough,"  he  laughed,  "well  enough  is  more  than 
half  ill;  I  am  indeed  well  enough  off.  And  you,  Marie?" 


MARIE  GRUBBE  247 

"Thank  you  kindly  for  asking;  we've  got  our  health, 
and  when  we  keep  tugging  at  the  oars  every  day,  we  've 
got  bread  and  brandy  too." 

They  had  reached  land,  and  Sti  stepped  out  and  said 
good-by. 

"Lord,"  said  Marie,  looking  after  him  pityingly,  "he  's 
certainly  been  shorn  of  crest  and  wings  too." 

Peacefully  and  quietly  the  days  passed  at  the  Burdock 
House,  with  daily  work  and  daily  gain.  Little  by  little,  the 
pair  improved  their  condition,  hired  boatmen  to  do  the 
ferrying,  carried  on  a  little  trade,  and  built  a  wing  on  their 
old  house.  They  lived  to  the  end  of  the  old  century  and  ten 
years  into  the  new.  Marie  turned  sixty,  and  she  turned 
sixty-five,  and  still  she  was  as  brisk  and  merry  at  her  work 
as  if  she  had  been  on  the  sunny  side  of  sixty.  But  then 
it  happened,  on  her  sixty-eighth  birthday,  in  the  spring  of 
seventeen  hundred  and  eleven,  that  Soren  accidentally 
shot  and  killed  a  skipper  from  Dragor  under  very  suspi- 
cious circumstances,  and  in  consequence  was  arrested. 

This  was  a  hard  blow  to  Marie.  She  had  to  endure  a 
long  suspense,  for  judgment  was  not  pronounced  until  mid- 
summer of  the  following  year,  and  this,  together  with  her 
anxiety  lest  the  old  affair  of  his  attempt  on  the  life  of  Anne 
Trinderup  should  be  taken  up  again,  aged  her  very  much. 

One  day,  in  the  beginning  of  this  period  of  waiting, 
Marie  went  down  to  meet  the  ferry  just  as  it  was  landing. 
There  were  two  passengers  on  board,  and  one  of  these, 
a  journeyman,  absorbed  her  attention  by  refusing  to  show 
his  passport,  declaring  that  he  had  shown  it  to  the  boat- 
men, when  he  went  on  board,  which  they,  however,  de- 
nied. When  she  threatened  to  charge  him  full  fare,  unless 


24«  MARIE  GRUBBE 

he  would  produce  his  passport  as  proof  of  his  right  as  a 
journeyman  to  travel  for  half  price,  he  had  to  give  in.  This 
matter  being  settled,  Marie  turned  to  the  other  passenger, 
a  little  slender  man  who  stood,  pale  and  shivering  after 
the  seasickness  he  had  just  endured,  wrapped  in  his  mantle 
of  coarse,  greenish-black  stuff,  and  leaning  against  the  side 
of  a  boat  that  had  been  dragged  up  on  the  beach.  He  asked 
in  a  peevish  voice  whether  he  could  get  lodgings  in  the  Bur- 
dock House,  and  Marie  replied  that  he  might  look  at  their 
spare  room. 

She  showed  him  a  little  chamber  which,  besides  bed  and 
chair,  contained  a  barrel  of  brandy  with  funnel  and  waste- 
cup,  some  large  kegs  of  molasses  and  vinegar,  and  a  table 
with  legs  painted  in  pearl-color  and  a  top  of  square  tiles, 
on  which  scenes  from  the  Old  and  New  Testament  were 
drawn  in  purplish  black.  The  stranger  at  once  noticed  that 
three  of  the  tiles  represented  Jonah  being  thrown  on  land 
from  the  mouth  of  the  whale,  and  when  he  put  his  hand  on 
them,  he  shuddered,  declaring  he  was  sure  to  catch  a  cold, 
if  he  should  be  so  careless  as  to  sit  and  read  with  his  elbows 
on  the  table.  • 

When  Marie  questioned  him,  he  explained  that  he  had 
left  Copenhagen  on  account  of  the  plague,  and  meant  to 
stay  until  it  was  over.  He  ate  only  three  times  a  day,  and 
he  could  not  stand  salt  meat  or  fresh  bread.  As  for  the  rest, 
he  was  a  master  of  arts,  at  present  fellow  at  Borch's  Col- 
legium, and  his  name  was  Holberg,  Ludvig  Holberg. 

Master  Holberg  was  a  very  quiet  man  of  remarkably 
youthful  appearance.  At  first  glance,  he  appeared  to  be 
about  eighteen  or  nineteen  years  old,  but  upon  closer  ex- 
amination, his  mouth,  his  hands,  and  the  inflection  of  his 
voice  showed  that  he  must  be  a  good  deal  older.  He  kept 


MARIE  GRUBBE  249 

to  himself,  spoke  but  little,  and  that  little — so  it  seemed  — 
with  reluctance.  Not  that  he  avoided  other  people,  but  he 
simply  wanted  them  to  leave  him  in  peace  and  not  draw 
him  into  conversation.  When  the  ferry  came  and  went  with 
passengers,  or  when  the  fishermen  brought  in  their  catch, 
he  liked  to  watch  the  busy  life  from  a  distance  and  to  listen 
to  the  discussions.  He  seemed  to  enjoy  the  sight  of  people 
at  work,  whether  it  was  ploughing  or  stacking  or  launching 
the  boats,  and  whenever  any  one  put  forth  an  effort  that 
showed  more  than  common  strength,  he  would  smile  with 
pleasure  and  lift  his  shoulders  in  quiet  delight.  When  he 
had  been  at  the  Burdock  House  for  a  month,  he  began  to  ap- 
proach Marie  Grubbe,  or  rather  he  allowed  her  to  approach 
him,  and  they  would  often  sit  talking,  in  the  warm  sum- 
mer evenings,  for  an  hour  or  two  at  a  time,  in  the  common 
room,  where  they  could  look  out  through  the  open  door, 
over  the  bright  surface  of  the  water,  to  the  blue,  hazy  out- 
lines of  Moen. 

One  evening,  after  their  friendship  had  been  well  estab- 
blished,  Marie  told  him  her  story,  and  ended  with  a  sigh, 
because  they  had  taken  Soren  away  from  her. 

"I  must  own,"  said  Holberg,  "that  I  am  utterly  unable 
to  comprehend  how  you  could  prefer  an  ordinary  groom  and 
country  oaf  to  such  a  polished  gentleman  as  his  Excel- 
lency the  Viceroy,  who  is  praised  by  everybody  as  a  past 
master  in  all  the  graces  of  fashion,  nay  as  the  model  of 
everything  that  is  elegant  and  pleasing." 

"  Even  though  he  had  been  as  full  of  it  as  the  book  they 
call  the  Alamodische  Sittenbuck^  it  would  not  have  mattered 
a  rush,  since  I  had  once  for  all  conceived  such  an  aversion 
and  loathing  for  him  that  I  could  scarce  bear  to  have  him 
come  into  my  presence;  and  you  know  how  impossible  it  is 


250  MARIE  GRUBBE 

to  overcome  such  an  aversion,  so  that  if  one  had  the  virtue 
and  principles  of  an  angel,  yet  this  natural  aversion  would 
be  stronger.  On  the  other  hand,  my  poor  present  husband 
woke  in  me  such  instant  and  unlooked-for  inclination  that 
I  could  ascribe  it  to  nothing  but  a  natural  attraction,  which 
it  would  be  vain  to  resist." 

"Ha!  That  were  surely  well  reasoned!  Then  we  have 
but  to  pack  all  morality  into  a  strong  chest  and  send  it  to 
Hekkenfell,  and  live  on  according  to  the  desires  of  our 
hearts,  for  then  there  is  no  lewdness  to  be  named  but  we 
can  dress  it  up  as  a  natural  and  irresistible  attraction,  and 
in  the  same  manner  there  is  not  one  of  all  the  virtues 
but  we  can  easily  escape  from  the  exercise  of  it;  for  one 
may  have  an  aversion  for  sobriety,  one  for  honesty,  one 
for  modesty,  and  such  a  natural  aversion,  he  would  say,  is 
quite  irresistible,  so  one  who  feels  it  is  quite  innocent.  But 
you  have  altogether  too  clear  an  understanding,  goodwife, 
not  to  know  that  all  this  is  naught  but  wicked  conceits 
and  bedlam  talk." 

Marie  made  no  answer. 

"But  do  you  not  believe  in  God,  goodwife,"  Master 
Holberg  went  on,  "and  in  the  life  everlasting?" 

"Ay,  God  be  praised,  I  do.  I  believe  in  our  Lord." 

"  But  eternal  punishment  and  eternal  reward,  good- 
wife?" 

"I  believe  every  human  being  lives  his  own  life  and 
dies  his  own  death,  that  is  what  I  believe." 

"But  that  is  no  faith;  do  you  believe  we  shall  rise  again 
from  the  dead?" 

"How  shall  I  rise?  As  the  young  innocent  child  I  was 
when  I  first  came  out  among  people,  or  as  the  honored  and 
envied  favorite  of  the  King  and  the  ornament  of  the  court, 


MARIE  GRUBBE  251 

or  as  poor  old  hopeless  Ferryman's  Marie?  And  shall  I 
answer  for  what  the  others,  the  child  and  the  woman  in  the 
fullness  of  life,  have  sinned,  or  shall  one  of  them  answer 
for  me?  Can  you  tell  me  that.  Master  Holberg?" 

"Yet  you  have  had  but  one  soul,  goodwife!" 

"Have  I  indeed?"  asked  Marie,  and  sat  musing  for  a 
while.  "Let  me  speak  to  you  plainly,  and  answer  me  truly 
as  you  think.  Do  you  believe  that  one  who  his  whole  life  has 
sinned  grievously  against  God  in  heaven,  and  who  in  his 
last  moment,  when  he  is  struggling  with  death,  confesses 
his  sin  from  a  true  heart,  repents,  and  gives  himself  over 
to  the  mercy  of  God,  without  fear  and  without  doubt,  do 
you  think  such  a  one  is  more  pleasing  to  God  than  another 
who  has  likewise  sinned  and  offended  against  Him,  but  then 
for  many  years  of  her  life  has  striven  to  do  her  duty,  has 
borne  every  burden  without  a  murmur,  but  never  in  prayer 
or  open  repentance  has  wept  over  her  former  life,  do  you 
think  that  she  who  has  lived  as  she  thought  was  rightly 
lived,  but  without  hope  of  any  reward  hereafter  and  with- 
out prayer,  do  you  think  God  will  thrust  her  from  Him  and 
cast  her  out,  even  though  she  has  never  uttered  a  word  of 
prayer  to  Him?" 

"That  is  more  than  any  man  may  dare  to  say,"  replied 
Master  Holberg  and  left  her. 

Shortly  afterwards  he  went  away. 

In  August  of  the  following  year,  judgment  was  pro- 
nounced against  Soren  Ferryman,  and  he  was  sentenced 
to  three  years  of  hard  labor  in  irons  at  Bremerholm. 

It  was  a  long  time  to  suffer,  longer  to  wait,  yet  at  last  it 
was  over.  Soren  came  home,  but  the  confinement  and  harsh 
treatment  had  undermined  his  health,  and  before  Marie 
had  nursed  him  for  a  year,  they  bore  him  to  the  grave. 


252  MARIE  GRUBBE 

For  yet  another  long,  long  year  Marie  had  to  endure  this 
life.  Then  she  suddenly  fell  ill  and  died.  Her  mind  was 
wandering  during  her  illness,  and  the  pastor  could  neither 
pray  with  her  nor  give  her  the  sacrament. 

On  a  sunny  day  in  summer  they  buried  her  at  Soren's 
side,  and  over  the  bright  waters  and  the  golden  grain- 
fields  sounded  the  hymn,  as  the  poor  little  group  of  mourn- 
ers, dulled  by  the  heat,  sang  without  sorrow  and  without 
thought : 

"  Lord  God,  in  mercy  hear  our  cry  before  Thee, 
Thy  bloody  scourge  lift  from  us,  we  implore  Thee; 
Turn  Thou  from  us  Thy  wrath  all  men  pursuing 
For  their  wrongdoing. 

"If  Thou  regard  alone  our  vile  offending, 
If  upon  us  true  justice  were  descending. 
Then  must  the  earth  and  all  upon  it  crumble. 
Yea,  proud  and  humble." 


THE   END 


Ilfl>'f 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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